Damnation Valley Read online

  They dashed across the trail and moved along the ridge, staying back from the edge so they wouldn’t be spotted until they were ready to move up and start searching for fresh targets. They carried out the maneuver with the same success they had enjoyed on the first round of shots. Four of the ten men on this side fell on their rifles.

  “A couple more,” Breckinridge decided after mulling it over for a moment. “Then we’ll have cut the odds in half from what they were.”

  “Sounds good to me. You reckon those pilgrims can fight off the rest of ’em?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t plan on stoppin’ there. Just figure to kill some more at closer range.”

  The ridge was fairly steep and rugged, but Breckinridge knew he could make it down there to the boulders. If he could get among the bandits before they knew he was there, he could wreak some pretty bloody havoc with his pistols, knife, and tomahawk. Once the ambushers on this side of the trail were wiped out, maybe he could rally the immigrants and lead a charge against the handful of remaining bandits on the other side.

  The plan might well have worked, except that just as Charlie Moss squeezed his rifle’s trigger, the man he had drawn a bead on shifted to one side. Instead of striking him in the middle of the back, the ball shattered his shoulder, spun him around, and knocked him against the rock instead. The wound was bad enough to put the man out of the fight, but it hadn’t killed him instantly, as the other shots had done.

  So he was able to yell his head off and warn the other four men on the near side of the trail.

  “Get down!” Breckinridge said as the bandits swung around and opened fire toward the ridge. It had taken the men only a second to figure out that’s where Breck and Moss had to be.

  They dived to the ground as rifle balls hummed around them. One of the shots kicked up dirt and rocks at the edge of the slope.

  “Hunt some cover,” Breckinridge said. “We got a fight on our hands now, not a turkey shoot.”

  They crawled over to some rocks that were a far cry from being boulders but were large enough to provide some cover, especially since the bandits were having to shoot up at an angle. Breckinridge and Moss had the better of that. For several minutes the rifle balls flew madly between the two groups without any hits on either side.

  Then one of the ambushers got careless, and someone in the wagon train was alert enough to notice that the man had exposed himself to fire from that angle. The bandit’s head seemed to explode as a shot struck it from behind. The gory corpse flopping forward distracted one of the other men, and Breckinridge drilled him through the chest.

  That just left two men on this side of the trail, and they had had enough. Breckinridge saw them duck back into the boulders and start running toward a nearby gully. Breck would have bet they had horses waiting there.

  “See if you can get one of ’em on the wing!” he called to Moss as he reloaded.

  Moss’s rifle boomed, but both ambushers kept running without breaking stride. They disappeared into the gully.

  “Dadgummit!” Moss exclaimed. “I thought I had him!”

  “At least they’re not tryin’ to kill any of those farmers anymore. And look over yonder.” Breckinridge pointed across the trail to where a cloud of dust was boiling up and moving away from the stalled wagons. “The varmints on that side are takin’ off for the tall and uncut, too. I reckon they saw the bodies of the ones we got before and decided they’d lost enough men for one day.”

  “Are we goin’ down there to introduce ourselves to the folks in the wagons?”

  “We sure are,” Breckinridge said. “For one thing, I want to ask them about those graves back there.”

  They returned to the spot where they had left their horses, mounted up, and rode slowly down the trail where it descended from the ridge. Breckinridge didn’t get in any hurry because he wanted the immigrants to get a good long look at him and Moss. After having been under attack, they would be on edge, and he wasn’t going to give them any excuse to panic and start shooting again.

  He didn’t have to worry about that. Someone in charge must have figured out that Breckinridge and Moss were the men who had come along to help them. Several men on horseback moved out from the wagon train and rode back along the trail toward them.

  When they were close, Breckinridge and Moss slowed and let the riders come to them. Everyone had their rifles across their saddles, but that was just being careful, something a fella had to do out here on the frontier if he wanted to survive for very long.

  The man who seemed to be the leader held up a hand to halt his companions. He was a stocky, florid-faced man with white hair under his hat and a white brush of a mustache. He said to Breckinridge and Moss, “You’re the boys who gave us a hand just now?”

  “We are,” Breckinridge said. “This is Charlie Moss. My name’s Wallace. Front handle is Breckinridge.”

  “We’re mighty obliged to you, and pleased to meet you, as well. I’m Otis Shaftel, captain of this wagon train. We’re bound for Santa Fe, although I suppose you knew that, since this is the Santa Fe Trail.” Shaftel nodded toward his companions. “Silas Barker, Jack Bechdolt, and Earl Repp, the men who are helping me run things. Do you know anything about those skunks who ambushed us?”

  “Not a blamed thing,” Breckinridge replied. “Other than they were white, as far as I could tell.”

  Shaftel grunted. “We expected we might have trouble with Indians on the way out here but haven’t seen a single hostile, just those friendly ones camped at Bent’s Fort. Didn’t think about running into outlaws. But I suppose there’s lawlessness anywhere you go, isn’t there?”

  “Pretty much,” Breckinridge agreed.

  “I don’t doubt that those no-good thieves were the same ones responsible for the massacre back up the trail.”

  “Massacre?” Breckinridge repeated, even though he had a very good idea what Shaftel was talking about.

  “Yes, a few days ago we came up on what looked like a group of teamsters. They’d all been slaughtered, and their wagons were gone.”

  Chapter 26

  Breckinridge let that dramatic pronouncement hang in the air for a second, then he said, “The people who’d been killed . . . was there a woman among ’em?”

  “A woman?” Shaftel repeated in surprise as his bushy white eyebrows drew down in a frown. “No, they were all men. Fourteen of them.” He looked around at his companions. “Did any of you boys see hide nor hair of a woman?”

  The others shook their heads. One of them said drily, “I think we would’ve noticed that, Otis.”

  Shaftel regarded Breckinridge and Moss with suspicion. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “Because we’ve been trackin’ a man and a woman for a long time now,” Breckinridge replied. “The woman is young, blond, mighty easy on the eyes. At least, she was the last time we saw her. But I reckon what she looks like don’t matter, since you said there weren’t any females in the bunch you came across.”

  “Nary a one,” Shaftel said. “What about the man you’re looking for?”

  “Short and wide, but not fat. All muscle. He generally sports a dark, bushy beard that comes down on his chest. His name is Jud Carnahan.”

  Shaftel shook his head.

  “None of those fellows were in any shape to tell us their names. They’d been dead awhile, and the scavengers had been at them. But I don’t recollect any of them matching that description.”

  The other men from the wagon train chimed in, agreeing with their captain. They could be lying, Breckinridge supposed, but he didn’t see any reason for them to do so. They seemed to be decent fellows. They had taken the time to bury each of those murdered teamsters in individual graves, after all, instead of dumping them all in one big hole or even leaving them for the animals and the elements.

  Shaftel went on, “These two you’re looking for, were they traveling with those teamsters?”

  “That’s what we were told at Bent’s Fort.”

 
One of the men said, “I’ll bet the bunch that ambushed us today is the same one that jumped those freight wagons.”

  “Seems likely,” Shaftel said, nodding. “Although I suppose there could be more than one band of outlaws operating in this area. The Santa Fe Trail stays pretty busy, after all. Lots of wagons to provide tempting targets.” The suspicion he had demonstrated earlier seemed to have eased. “You men saved us, I reckon, and you’re mighty good fighters. How would you like to throw in with us the rest of the way to Santa Fe?”

  Breckinridge thought it over. What had happened to Carnahan and Ophelia was a mystery. It was possible the outlaws had taken them along as prisoners after wiping out the rest of the party. Or maybe Carnahan and Ophelia had split off from the group for some reason before the freight wagons were ambushed.

  He considered backtracking to the site of the massacre and trying to follow the outlaws’ trail, but with the welter of hoofprints on both sides of the trail, that might be difficult. How could you pick out the tracks of the bandits’ horses from the millions of other hoofprints? Trying to find the place where Carnahan and Ophelia had split off from the wagons, if indeed they had, would be even more of a challenge.

  No, if Carnahan and Ophelia were still alive, then Santa Fe remained their most likely destination, Breckinridge decided. And as Moss had pointed out, time was no longer the most important factor. Persistence was.

  Moss would go along with whatever he said. So Breckinridge nodded and told Shaftel, “I reckon we wouldn’t mind ridin’ with you folks, if you’ll have us.”

  “You’ll be mighty welcome,” the white-haired captain said. “Come on. I know folks are anxious to meet the two men who saved our bacon.”

  * * *

  Otis Shaftel was right about that. The immigrants crowded around to greet Breckinridge and Charlie Moss. The men shook their hands and slapped them on the back. The older women smiled and invited them to take supper with their families when the wagon train made camp that evening. The younger women smiled and batted their eyelashes, especially at Breck.

  When they got a chance for a word alone, Moss nudged Breckinridge with an elbow and grinned.

  “Better be careful, Breck. I think at least half of the mamas in this train are already plannin’ on marryin’ one of their daughters off to you.”

  Breckinridge blew out a breath and shook his head.

  “Last thing in the world I want is a wife. Almost had one a time or two, and the way things worked out, I learned I ain’t exactly the marryin’ kind.”

  “Well, we’ll see. Sometimes things you ain’t expectin’ come along and smack you in the head.”

  They were tending to their horses when a nice-looking woman with brown hair came up to them. They hadn’t been introduced to her earlier, as far as Breckinridge could recall, but she remedied that by saying, “Hello. I’m Georgina Shaftel.”

  She had a wedding ring on her finger, Breckinridge noticed. She was a lot younger than Otis Shaftel, but such matches weren’t uncommon. He nodded politely and said, “You’re Captain Shaftel’s wife, ma’am?”

  “No, I’m his daughter-in-law. I’m married to . . . I was married to . . . his son Patrick.” A faint, sad smile touched her lips. “He passed away last year.”

  Moss tugged his hat off and said, “We’re mighty sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

  “What can we do for you?” Breckinridge asked.

  Georgina Shaftel’s smile was warmer and not as sad as she went on, “I know you probably received a lot of dinner invitations earlier, but my father-in-law would really like for you to eat with us tonight. So would I.”

  “I reckon we’d be pleased to,” Moss replied before Breckinridge could say anything. Not that it mattered. Breck would have agreed, too. It didn’t make any difference to him.

  “All right. You’ll be able to find our wagon without any trouble.”

  Georgina moved off toward the front of the line of wagons. The immigrants were getting ready to roll again, since there was still plenty of daylight left to cover more ground. Two men had been killed in the ambush. Their bodies had been wrapped in blankets and placed in their wagons. They would be laid to rest beside the trail that evening, after the group made camp.

  There were probably thousands of lost, lonely graves along this trail, Breckinridge reflected. The final resting places of folks who had tried for something better in their lives and failed, falling victim to sickness or violence.

  Breckinridge and Moss rode at the front of the wagon train with Otis Shaftel. The company had two scouts, a couple of leathery older men named Kanigher and Dawson, who rode a mile or so ahead to make sure there was no trouble lurking along the trail. Earlier, Breck had overheard them talking to Shaftel. Both men were extremely chagrined that they had allowed the wagons to roll right into that ambush. The outlaws had been well hidden, though.

  As far as Breckinridge was concerned, he would keep a wary eye on Kanigher and Dawson. He didn’t believe that the scouts were working with the bandits, but the possibility couldn’t be ruled out.

  If there was something shady about the two men, they would be less likely to lead the wagon train into a trap, now that Breckinridge and Moss had thrown in with the immigrants. Breck was always on the lookout for trouble.

  That evening, after the wagons pulled into a circle and the teams of oxen were unhitched and herded into the center, the two men who had been killed were buried on a little hill overlooking the trail from about a quarter of a mile away. It was a solemn occasion. A couple of men who had fiddles played a hymn, and the whole company sang. Shaftel said proper words over the bodies and led a prayer. The sun had just set, so a brilliant red and gold cathedral-like arch was still on display in the western sky. A breeze kicked up a little dust and swirled it around so that it sparkled in the fading light. A fella could have a worse send-off, Breckinridge thought.

  The bandits who’d been killed in the fighting earlier in the day certainly hadn’t received such respectful treatment. Their bodies had been dumped into a nearby ravine and left there.

  With the burial over, the pilgrims returned to camp, where the women set about preparing supper. Breckinridge and Moss made sure their horses and the packhorse were all right, then strolled over to the big Conestoga wagon belonging to Otis Shaftel. Georgina had a pot of stew simmering over a cooking fire. A Dutch oven with biscuits in it sat at the edge of the flames.

  Two youngsters, a boy about eight years old and a girl a couple of years younger, played nearby. Moss took off his hat, nodded toward them, and asked Georgina, “Your young ’uns, ma’am?”

  “That’s right,” she replied with a smile. “Walter and Sadie. And you don’t have to call me ma’am, Mr. Moss.”

  “All right, then, uh, Miz Shaftel.”

  “Perhaps by the time we reach Santa Fe, you’ll be calling me Georgina and I can call you Charles.”

  Moss was starting to look uncomfortable. He twisted the hat in his hands and said, “Um, ain’t nobody called me Charles since my ma did, and she mostly did when I was in some sort of trouble. But I reckon you can call me Charles anytime you want, ma’am—I mean, Miz Shaftel.”

  She turned away, but not before Breckinridge spied the smile on her lips. Moss had ribbed him about all the attention the girls had paid to him, but from the looks of Georgina Shaftel, Moss was the one who had a gal seriously setting her cap for him already.

  The meal was a pleasant one. The kids settled down and weren’t too rowdy, and the stew was good, especially with light, fluffy biscuits and washed down with strong black coffee. There wasn’t a lot of evidence to go on yet, but Georgina seemed to be a fine cook.

  Curious, Breckinridge asked Otis Shaftel, “Did you have to make arrangements with the Mexican government before you folks could move in down there around Santa Fe?”

  “Yes, I was in charge of forming the company and signing contracts with the territorial governor,” Shaftel said. “We had to put up a sizable bond, but it’ll be returne
d to us once we’ve settled and been there awhile. Less, of course, a certain amount for the governor.” He chuckled. “I made a couple of trips down there to arrange everything, and it didn’t take me long to figure out how things work south of the border. The Mexicans are still a little touchy about what happened over in Texas. That whole revolution was less than ten years ago, you know.”

  Breckinridge nodded. “I’ve heard a lot about Texas. Never been there, though.”

  “From what I understand, it’s a hellish place. I’m not sure why anyone would want to fight over it.” Shaftel shrugged. “But there’s hardly anyplace that somebody’s not willing to fight over.”

  “Do you have to be Mexican citizens?” Moss asked.

  “No, but we have to abide by Mexican laws. It’s pretty much the same as if we were citizens, I suppose.”

  Breckinridge drank the last of the coffee in his cup and said, “I wouldn’t think the country down there would be very good for farming.” He waved his free hand to indicate the rocky, semiarid terrain around them. “These parts sure wouldn’t be.”

  “It’s different over in the valley of the Rio Grande. That’s the big river that runs through this part of the country. Not saying it’ll be easy, but I’m convinced that with hard work, we can make a go of it.”

  Georgina said, “Whatever you do in life, you have to work hard to be successful at it.”

  “That’s sure true,” Moss agreed. His hat was pushed back on his head, and as he looked across the fire at Georgina, Breckinridge could tell that he was well and truly smitten.

  Like Moss himself had said, sometimes something unexpected came up and smacked you across the face. Breckinridge figured that was what was happening to his friend now.

  Later, they spread their bedrolls under one of the wagons. Breckinridge said quietly, “I reckon we ought to take turns stayin’ awake tonight, just in case what was left of those varmints come back to try again.”