The Frontiersman Read online

  At the same time he felt no guilt. They had jumped him, outnumbered him six to one, and planned to thrash him within an inch of his life, if not worse. Whatever happened, Aylesworth and his friends had brought it upon themselves.

  Aylesworth had the dead man clasped in his arms as he screamed curses at Breckinridge. Three of the other men were still unconscious, and the one fellow still on his feet seemed even more stunned by this turn of events than Breck was.

  “You’ll hang for this!” Aylesworth ranted at Breckinridge. “You’re a murderer, Wallace! I’ll have the law on you!”

  “I was defending myself—” Breckinridge began.

  That argument didn’t work any better with Aylesworth than it had with Maureen. The wealthy young man shouted, “You’ll hang, I tell you! You attacked us! You struck down poor Jasper from behind like the killer you are!”

  “That’s a damned lie! It was you and your friends—”

  This time Breckinridge stopped short on his own without being interrupted. A chill raced through him. Sick fear clawed at his stomach.

  If Aylesworth and his surviving friends blamed this encounter on Breckinridge, there was no doubt who the law would believe. Breck could insist from now until doomsday that he wasn’t to blame for what had happened, that Aylesworth and the others had started the fight and he was only trying to protect himself, but it wouldn’t do him any good. The authorities wouldn’t accept that story.

  This wasn’t like his battle with the Chickasaw, either. Nobody was going to be upset about him killing a couple of renegades. If anything, he would be cheered for it.

  But killing a white man was different. Especially when the dead man was the son of Knoxville’s most prominent banker. Aylesworth had called him Jasper, and Breckinridge recalled now that one of Aylesworth’s friends was Jasper Carlson, whose father wielded a great deal of wealth and influence in this end of the state.

  He was doomed, Breckinridge thought. He could see himself being marched up the thirteen steps to the top of the gallows, where a noose awaited him . . .

  Those thoughts raced through his brain in a matter of seconds as he came to their inescapable conclusion.

  “No!” he cried involuntarily. “No, I won’t hang for something that’s not my fault!”

  “You’ll hang,” Aylesworth said with utter certainty. The faint moonlight glittered on tears that ran down his cheeks as he held his dead friend. “And when they haul down your corpse I’ll spit on it before they dump it in a pauper’s grave.”

  Breckinridge looked around, jerking his head from side to side as wild desperation filled him. He spotted Hector standing about fifty yards away, cropping peacefully at the grass along the side of the road. The horse had run that far after Breck was knocked off his back and then had stopped to graze.

  Breckinridge suddenly broke into a run. He headed for the horse as Aylesworth howled behind him, “Stop him! For God’s sake, stop him!”

  The other man didn’t budge, never made a move to try to prevent Breckinridge from getting away.

  Hector shied a little as Breckinridge ran toward him, but he didn’t go far. Breck caught the trailing reins, stuck his left foot in the stirrup on that side, and hurriedly swung up into the saddle. He banged his heels against the horse’s flanks. Hector blew air through his nose in an offended manner at this rough treatment, but he broke into a run.

  Breckinridge’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst out of his chest. He had never been in real trouble with the law. He had gotten some stern warnings from the constable about fighting but had never spent a night in jail, much less faced the threat of being tried for murder, convicted, and hanged.

  Yet he was convinced that was exactly what would happen if he was arrested. He would never be free again. His parents would probably plead for mercy because of his youth, but such pleas were likely to go ignored because of his great size. People would look at him and see a grown man, whether he really was or not.

  As far as Breckinridge could figure, he had only one choice, one hope of saving his life.

  He had to flee. No matter how much it went against the grain for him to run away from trouble, he had to do it.

  Unless his pa or maybe Edward could come up with some other idea. Pa had a lot of hardheaded Scots common sense, and Edward was smart as a whip. Breckinridge felt a faint glimmering of hope inside him. He would go home and ask his father and oldest brother for help.

  Besides, he couldn’t run away, maybe forever, and not say good-bye to his ma first.

  A bitter taste filled his mouth as another thought occurred to him. Richard Aylesworth had gotten what he wanted, after all.

  Breckinridge would probably never lay eyes on Maureen Grantham again.

  * * *

  By the time he got back to the farm, his pulse wasn’t racing as fast and his head was clearer. He had put aside the stirrings of horror he felt at the knowledge that he had killed yet again. This morning when he woke up he had never taken another human being’s life. Now there were three men who would never take another breath because of him.

  Breckinridge didn’t let himself think about that as he dismounted. He had ridden in pretty quickly, and Hector’s pounding hoofbeats had roused the dogs, young Sammy and the ancient, silver-muzzled cur called Max. Both of them came out of the barn to bark loudly at him.

  Robert Wallace appeared at the doorway wearing a nightshirt and holding a shotgun. He demanded, “Who’s out there? Who—Oh, it’s you, Breckinridge.” Robert snorted. “I might have known. Who else would come barging up in the middle of the night, causing a ruckus? Boy, have ye no sense?”

  Breckinridge ignored the irritated question and said, “Pa, I’m in trouble.”

  “Over what? Brawlin’ again? If the constable be after you, son, ye’ll just have to take yer medicine—”

  “I killed a man.”

  Robert’s mouth drooped open. He stepped forward on the porch and stared at his youngest son. He tried to speak, but it took him a moment to force the words out.

  “Ye . . . ye killed a man? Who . . . how . . . Good Lord, boy, what were ye thinkin’?”

  Breckinridge dismounted and looped Hector’s reins around a porch rail. He stepped up next to his father and said, “It wasn’t my fault, Pa—”

  “Aye, ’tis never yer fault when ye get in trouble, is it?” Robert bellowed. “Saints preserve us, lad, this is serious!”

  “I know. But I swear I was just defending myself. It was an accident.”

  “Who did ye kill?” Robert asked in a flat, hard tone.

  “I’m pretty sure it was Jasper Carlson.”

  Robert gasped and staggered as if he’d been struck. His voice was hollow with fear now, rather than angry, as he repeated, “Jasper Carlson. The banker’s son?”

  “Yeah. He was with Richard Aylesworth and some more of that bunch. They jumped me on the road outside of town and tried to give me a beatin’. I fought back and . . . well, Jasper hit his head on a tree. I reckon it, uh, stove in his skull, from the sound of it when he hit.”

  Edward stepped out of the door onto the porch. Clearly he had gotten there in time to hear Breckinridge’s explanation, because he clutched Breck’s arm and asked, “You said Aylesworth and more of his friends were there?”

  “Yeah. And Aylesworth said they’d tell the law it was all my fault, that I attacked them and hit Jasper from behind. That’s not the way it happened, though.”

  Edward reached up and put both hands on Breckinridge’s shoulders now.

  “Oh, Breck,” he said despairingly, “the authorities will never believe that.”

  “I know.” Breckinridge swallowed hard. “They’ll believe whatever Aylesworth tells them . . . and he told me that I was gonna hang for what happened.”

  Robert squinted at him and asked, “Do ye swear that yer tellin’ the truth about it, lad?”

  Breckinridge nodded and said, “I swear, Pa.”

  “Then ye’ll not hang! We’ll put a stop
to this. We’ll talk to the law and tell them the truth—”

  “And they’ll put Breck in jail, have a sham of a trial, and string him up,” Edward broke in. “You know that, Pa. People like us . . . we’ve got no chance against the likes of Richard Aylesworth. And Jasper Carlson’s father will want blood, too. Breck’s blood.” Edward looked at his youngest brother and went on, “You’ve got to get out of here.”

  Breckinridge sighed.

  “That’s what I was thinkin’, too,” he said. “But I sure hoped you could come up with some other idea, Edward. I don’t want to leave home.”

  “It’s your only chance,” Edward urged. “You need to head west into Missouri. Maybe even beyond Missouri. If you go far enough the law won’t be able to find you. They may not even try if you vanish into the frontier. You have to take Hector, too. You’ll need a good horse.”

  “But you use him for the plowing. I thought I’d go on foot—”

  “They’ll catch you in a matter of days if you do,” Edward said. “Maybe hours.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Robert said. “Yer sayin’ Breckinridge has to go away? To never come back?”

  “Not any time soon. It’s too dangerous for him.”

  “My God.” Robert leaned the shotgun against the wall and stepped over to Breckinridge. He said again, “My God,” then put his arms around his youngest son, who was almost twice as big as the old man. “My baby boy. I . . . I . . .”

  Emotion choked his voice so that he couldn’t go on.

  Breckinridge’s eyes burned, and his throat felt like it had something huge caught inside it. He used a big hand to pat his father on the back and forced himself to say, “It’ll be all right, Pa. I . . . I’ll come back one of these days. You’ll see.”

  Robert hugged him fiercely, then said to Edward, “Fetch yer mother and yer brothers. If Breckinridge has to leave, he won’t do it without everybody sayin’ good-bye to him.”

  Edward nodded and ducked into the house. Robert put an arm around Breckinridge’s shoulders, reaching up quite a bit to do so, and steered him toward the door.

  “Come inside, son. Ye’ve got to say yer farewells.”

  “It needs to be fast, Pa,” Breckinridge said. “Aylesworth’s probably already gone to the law by now.”

  The next few minutes were hectic indeed. Breckinridge’s mother wailed with grief when she learned that her youngest son was leaving, most likely for good. Despite the resentment she sometimes felt toward him, he was still one of her boys.

  Breck’s brothers were all upset, too. Jeremiah and Henry, the most hotheaded of the clan other than Breck himself, declared that he should stay and fight the law with them at his side.

  “They’ll only take you out of here over our dead bodies!” Jeremiah vowed. That made Samantha sob even more.

  “Nobody else is gettin’ killed, and sure as blazes not on account of me,” Breckinridge said. “That’s why I’m leavin’, and nobody can stop me.”

  In the light from the candle on the table, Edward rubbed his chin and said, “The law is bound to ask questions. We’ll tell them you said you were going to Texas.” He smiled sadly. “Like Davy Crockett.”

  “Anybody who knows Breckinridge will believe that,” Thomas said.

  “You’ll need supplies,” Samantha said. “I’ll gather up some food.”

  “And your rifle and pistol and plenty of powder and shot,” Edward said. “We’ll get all we have on hand. We’d better get busy. There can’t be much time.”

  That was true. Breckinridge could imagine a posse of lawmen galloping toward the farm at that very moment, aiming to arrest him and start him on the road that led inevitably to the gallows.

  When all the supplies had been gathered and hung on the saddle in canvas bags, Breckinridge stood on the porch and hugged each of his brothers in turn, slapping them on the back. He might have gotten a little carried away by emotion, judging by the way they staggered a bit, but they returned the hugs and exhorted him to take care of himself.

  He hugged his father next, and Robert gruffly advised him, “Ye’ve got to learn to control that reckless nature o’ yers, boy. ’Twill land ye in trouble every time.”

  Breckinridge wanted to point out that he hadn’t done anything reckless in this instance other than calling on a pretty girl, but he didn’t want to waste any of what might be his last few precious moments with his family in arguing. Instead he promised, “I’ll try, Pa. I’ll do my best not to let you down again.”

  He hugged his mother then, and through her tears Samantha said, “I’ve never been fair to you.”

  “Now, Ma, that’s not—”

  “It’s true,” she insisted. “I’ve always been harder on you than any of the others, and yet all the time I knew you might turn out to be the best of us.”

  “The best? I’m runnin’ away from the law because I killed a man—”

  “This is just the start of your life, Breckinridge. What happens from now on is up to you, not anyone else. You’ll be all right, especially if you stop to think every now and then. You don’t always have to do the first thing that comes to your mind, no matter what the circumstances.” She dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her nightdress. “And there I go again, fussing at you. Just remember that we all love you, Breckinridge.”

  “And I love you,” he said. “I’ll never forget you, any of you. And if I can come back someday, I will.”

  With those painful farewells out of the way, Breckinridge mounted up. He sat there on Hector for a moment, looking at his home and family that he might never see again. Then he lifted a hand to wave good-bye, turned the horse’s head, and nudged Hector into motion.

  “Ride south a good long way before you turn west,” Edward called after him. “Stay as far away from Knoxville as you can.”

  That was good advice. Breckinridge waved again to signal his acknowledgment.

  He struck out across country, following the valley as it angled southwest. The dark bulk of the Smokies rose to his left. He had spent so much time in those mountains that they were like his second home, and he regretted leaving them, too.

  But he had heard that the Rocky Mountains were even taller and more majestic. Despite being upset about everything that had happened, he felt the first flush of excitement. Maybe he would actually see the Rockies for himself someday. He had dreamed about such things without really thinking they might come true.

  Now there was nothing holding him back. He could go wherever he pleased and do whatever he wanted.

  Assuming, of course, that the law didn’t catch him and hang him for killing Jasper Carlson.

  Breckinridge forced those thoughts out of his mind. He knew the danger existed and he would do everything in his power to avoid it, but he wasn’t going to dwell on it. Instead he was going to think about the endless possibilities before him.

  He leaned forward, patted Hector on the shoulder, and said, “I know you’ve carried me quite a ways already tonight, old fella, but I have to depend on you for a while longer. If you can keep it up, we’ll have a rest later.”

  Hector tossed his head and didn’t slow from the ground-eating trot he had established. He and Breckinridge moved on, skirting trouble—at least Breck hoped so—moving steadily toward the frontier . . . and the future.

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter Seven

  Many times over the next few weeks, Breckinridge dreamed of being chased. He heard the thundering hoofbeats of a posse pursuing him. The baying of bloodhounds haunted his dreams, along with the angry voices of men shouting “String him up!” and “Hang the murderer!”

  From time to time he even dreamed about that night on the road east of Knoxville, and it seemed that he could change what had happened. All he had to do was wake up while Jasper Carlson was still alive . . .

  But when he woke, Jasper was still dead, and there wasn’t a blessed thing Breckinridge could do about it. He was still a wanted fugitive, and he always would be.

  F
or all practical purposes, though, every mile he put between him and Knoxville increased his chances that so-called justice would never catch up to him. Rich man’s justice, he thought bitterly sometimes as he rode through the night, along narrow trails and through unfamiliar woods, guided only by the stars as he listened to the lonely hooting of owls and fought against the empty feeling inside him.

  Fortunately, it wasn’t like that all the time. At first he traveled only at night, hiding out in gullies or thickets during the day when he might be seen, but as he began to curve more to the west, farther from Knoxville, he grew bolder. He hadn’t spotted any signs of pursuit and thought it might be safe to ride during the day as long as he avoided the main roads.

  That allowed him to take a good look at the new country through which he passed. It really wasn’t that much different from the landscape around home—rugged, wooded hills slashed with gullies and divided by valleys where farmers earned their living from the land—but it was new territory to Breckinridge and he savored everything about it.

  He avoided settlements and people as much as he could. Now and then he would meet somebody on the road, usually a farmer driving a mule-drawn wagon, but they were as taciturn as he was and had little or nothing to say.

  That went against Breckinridge’s nature, because he’d always been the sort to talk to anybody and everybody, and his pa had said sometimes that Breck could talk the ears off a brass monkey. Breck had never actually seen a brass monkey, but he’d heard plenty about them from Pa.

  He shot game when he could, filled his water skin at every passing creek. He began to long for company. He enjoyed exploring like this, but he wasn’t really cut out for a solitary life.

  Both Breckinridge and Hector began to grow lean, almost gaunt. Breck’s supplies were low. He didn’t want to venture into a town. Folks would be liable to remember somebody as big as he was, and if the law came around looking for him and asking questions, they might pick up his trail.