The Darkest Winter Page 6

  “There’s a man in the trees on each side of the clearing,” Morgan replied in equally low tones. “They changed shifts a while back, and I assume they will again before morning, since they have the luxury of more men.”

  Breckinridge nodded, even though Morgan might not be able to see the gesture. “All right. Head for your soogans. I’ll keep an eye on things.”

  “I’ll be glad when morning comes and we can set off on our own again. I feel sort of like we’re trying to sleep in a den of wolves.”

  “Same here,” Breckinridge said. He patted the stock of the rifle he had picked up and placed across his lap. “But I got somethin’ here to scare ’em off if need be.”

  Morgan let out a little grunt of grim amusement, then curled up in his blankets, put his hat under his head for a pillow, and soon was breathing deeply and regularly.

  Breckinridge sat there, all his senses fully awake and engaged. His gaze roved around the camp, searching for any suspicious movement. His hearing reached out into the night, alert for anything that sounded wrong. He even sniffed the air, aware that Indians often coated their hair with bear grease, which had a distinctive odor when it turned rancid.

  His thoughts, however, roamed here and there and inevitably turned back toward the past. Several months earlier, if anyone had told him how things were going to turn out and mentioned the situation in which he found himself now, he wouldn’t have believed them. Everything had seemed clear-cut in his mind, almost preordained. He had been certain of all the things he was going to do—and the person who was going to be at his side while he was doing them.

  Then all that had been turned on its head with no warning.

  Well, that wasn’t completely true, he mused. Dulcy had tried. She had hinted that things might not go as smoothly as he’d expected. But with his enormous confidence in himself and in fate, he had brushed that aside. Things would turn out the way he wanted them to because he, Breckinridge Wallace, said so.

  Funny how the world didn’t pay any attention to that. It kept turning and things played out the way they had, and Breckinridge hadn’t been able to stop them any more than he would have been able to put his shoulder to a mountain and stop it from falling if it took a mind to.

  Most of the time, he was able to push all that away and not allow it to bother him. His belief in himself might have been shaken a little, but it hadn’t been broken. He could accept the past and carry on.

  It was only at moments such as this, when he didn’t have enough to occupy his thoughts, that the memories and the doubts crept in, and he understood why philosophers referred to the dark night of the soul. Some of those nights were pretty damned dark, sure enough.

  But thankfully, morning always came.

  * * *

  Breckinridge woke Morgan when the sky was gray in the east. He leaned close and said, “Time to go.”

  Morgan sat up and knuckled his eyes. “Carnahan and his men aren’t up yet?”

  “Nope, but I reckon they will be soon. The guards will see us leavin’, but I don’t think they’ll try to stop us.” Breckinridge’s voice hardened as he added, “If they’re plannin’ to cause trouble for us, I’d just as soon get it over with.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  Both young men got to their feet and began gathering their gear. The dim, predawn light grew stronger as they worked. Breckinridge could see the guards over by the Carnahan party’s canoes, so he knew the men could see him and Morgan as well.

  While they were stowing their things in the canoes, one of those men started stalking toward them. Breckinridge saw the long, thin shape swinging against the man’s leg and knew it had to be the saber carried by Ralston. The major came to a stop and demanded, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Figured we’d head on upriver,” Breckinridge said. “Get a good start on the day. It’s light enough now to see where we’re goin’.”

  The rifle in Ralston’s hands moved slightly as he said, “Then it’s light enough for you to see this.”

  “What’s goin’ on here, Ralston?” Breckinridge asked. He deliberately made his voice louder this time.

  “You’re not going anywhere yet,” the major rasped.

  A faint smile ghosted over Breckinridge’s face. “You figure on shootin’ me if I try?” he asked. “If you do, you might take a look at Morgan over there. See how he’s got his hand on his pistol? If you shoot me, he’ll have plenty of time to put a ball in you before you can reload your rifle or draw that pigsticker o’ yours.”

  It was light enough now for Breckinridge to see the sneer on Ralston’s face. He said, “If Baxter tries to shoot me, one of the other guards will kill him.”

  “You’ll be bettin’ your life they’ll be fast enough to do it—and that they won’t miss in this poor light.”

  “You’re running a bluff, and it’s a damned poor one.”

  “There’s one way for you to find out,” Breckinridge said.

  A few seconds of tense silence ticked past. Then it was broken by Jud Carnahan saying, “Ralston, what the hell are you doing?”

  “These two were about to leave,” Ralston said without taking his eyes off Breckinridge as Carnahan came up behind him. “I think they were trying to sneak off before anyone was up because they’ve stolen some of our supplies.”

  Anger flared up inside Breckinridge. “By God, we ain’t thieves!” he exclaimed. “There may be some no-good robbers in this camp, but it ain’t Morgan and me!”

  That might not have been the smartest thing to say, he realized, but when he was mad, his mouth sometimes got ahead of his brain. Anyway, he’d said it, and he couldn’t call the words back now.

  “I think we should search their canoes,” Ralston said.

  Breckinridge gave a contemptuous snort and waved a hand toward the craft. “Go ahead. You won’t find a damn thing ’cept what we brought with us.”

  Ralston smiled then, and the confident expression was like a sudden punch in Breckinridge’s gut. Something was wrong here, and Breck had a hunch he knew what it was.

  Some of the other men had wandered up behind Carnahan to see what was going on. He turned and motioned to a couple of them. “Brady, Hanks, take a look in those canoes.”

  The two men went over to the canoes and started poking around in them. It annoyed Breckinridge to have strangers messing with his gear, but it was too late to stop it now. He hadn’t caught on to what was happening in time, and now the hand had to play out. He looked at Morgan, who wore a worried frown. Maybe he had started to figure things out, too, Breck thought.

  The man who was looking through Morgan’s canoe suddenly straightened from the task and said, “Jud, there’s a keg of powder and a bag full of shot here with your mark on them. They had to come from that store back in St. Louis where we outfitted.”

  Carnahan’s bushy brows drew down severely. “Is that so?” he rumbled. He turned a suspicious glare on Breckinridge. “How do you reckon that happened?”

  “I’ll tell you exactly how it happened,” Breckinridge replied without hesitation. He pointed at Gordon Ralston. “The major snuck up durin’ the night and put those things there. Either that, or he got somebody else to do it for him, to make Morgan and me look like thieves.” Breck started to add something about the pot calling the kettle black, but he managed to control the urge this time.

  He also didn’t mention that the trick must have been carried out while Morgan was standing guard, because he knew no one had approached the canoes while he was watching. He didn’t see any point in casting blame and making his friend feel bad about it, though.

  “That’s insane,” Ralston said in response to the accusation. “Why in the world would I do such a thing?”

  “Because you and me have rubbed each other wrong from the beginning, Major,” Breckinridge said. “I figure you just want to cause trouble for me and Morgan.”

  And to have an excuse for killing us and taking our canoes and gear, he thought, just like
he and Morgan had discussed the day before. If Ralston suspected that Breckinridge was the one he and his confederates had attacked back in St. Louis, he might want to make sure that story didn’t ever get out, as well.

  “That seems like a flimsy story to me, Wallace,” Carnahan said. “The evidence says you got caught trying to steal powder and shot from us. That’s a mighty unfriendly thing to do, especially after we invited you into our camp last night.”

  “In return for us helping you drive off those hostiles,” Morgan reminded him.

  “You just did that so you’d have a chance to steal from us,” Ralston said.

  Even though he knew it probably wouldn’t do any good, Breckinridge said, “Hold on and think about this for a minute. You had guards posted all night, Carnahan. Wouldn’t at least one of them have spotted us rummagin’ around in your goods and raised the alarm if it was really us who took those things?”

  “I suppose that depends on how stealthy you were about it,” Carnahan said.

  Breckinridge gestured at his massive form and said, “I ain’t exactly built for stealth.”

  That was what most people would think, anyway. In reality, he could move through the woods like a phantom when he wanted to, making no more noise than an Indian on the prowl.

  Ralston nodded toward Morgan and said, “Maybe the weaselly one did it.”

  “Weaselly?” Morgan exclaimed. “Why, I—”

  Breckinridge held up a hand to stop him. In a flat, hard voice, he said, “We’ve told you the truth, Carnahan. That powder and shot were planted. You can believe that, or you can go to hell. Your men took it out, so you’ve got your goods back. Now Morgan and me are leavin’ like we planned.”

  “I was planning to ask you to stay for breakfast,” Carnahan said, “but I reckon that’s not gonna happen now.”

  “Fine by us.” Breckinridge jerked his head toward the canoes. “Come on, Morgan.”

  “Wait just a damn minute!” Ralston yelled. “Just because they didn’t get away with it doesn’t make it all right that they tried to steal from us. They ought to pay for that, by God!”

  “What do you suggest?” Carnahan asked as he watched Ralston with a sly frown on his face.

  Ralston’s lip curled in a sneer. “If they were in my command, I’d order them whipped and then sending them slinking back downriver like the thieving curs they are. A taste of the lash would teach them not to try to steal from their betters.”

  “If you want to try to whip them . . .” Carnahan’s broad shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Nobody’s going to stop you, Major.”

  “Except me,” Breckinridge said. “Nobody’s takin’ a whip to me.”

  Ralston licked his lips. His arrogance had gotten him into a dilemma. Carnahan hadn’t backed him up the way Ralston obviously expected he would. If everything had gone according to Ralston’s plan, Breckinridge and Morgan would have put up a fight when they were accused of stealing. As outnumbered as they were, it would have been easy to make sure they wound up dead.

  Instead, Breckinridge was about half-convinced now that Carnahan hadn’t been aware of the trick. It was all Ralston’s doing. And if Ralston was going to press the issue, he would have to do it by himself, or at least with fewer allies than he’d counted on. Breck could tell that his logic had convinced some of the men he was telling the truth.

  The smartest thing Ralston could do was to accept that his ploy had failed. For a moment Breckinridge thought that was what the major was going to do. He could almost see the wheels turning in Ralston’s brain.

  However, the former officer’s pride wouldn’t allow him to admit defeat. His face hardened, and his single eye blazed with hatred. He handed his rifle to Al Nusser and then said, “Wallace not only tried to steal from us, he accused me of the crime. He as much as called me a liar. I won’t stand for that, Jud.”

  “Then do something about it,” Carnahan said in a faintly mocking tone.

  “I intend to.” Metal rasped against metal as Ralston drew the saber from its scabbard. He pointed the blade at Breckinridge and said, “Prepare yourself, Wallace. I intend to kill you right now, before the sun comes up.”

  Chapter 9

  For a moment, Breckinridge fixed Ralston with a hard, cold stare. Then he said, “If you’re figurin’ on havin’ a sword fight with me, mister, you’re outta luck. I don’t have one o’ them frog-giggers.”

  Ralston smiled thinly. “You’re the one out of luck. I happen to have a second saber, and I’d be happy to loan it to you.”

  Morgan said, “Wait just a damned minute! This isn’t fair. Breck’s never used a saber.” He glanced at his friend. “You haven’t, have you?”

  Breckinridge shrugged. “No, but I’ve fought with knives plenty of times. Reckon it’s pert near the same thing, only the blade’s longer.”

  “No, it’s not,” Morgan argued. He looked at Carnahan. “Surely you can see this isn’t right.”

  “The fellow who gets challenged to a duel has the choice of weapons,” Carnahan said. “Wallace didn’t actually challenge the major, but he did call him a liar, which is pretty close to the same thing.”

  “Close enough,” Ralston said. “How about it, Wallace? Are you going to do the honorable thing—or be a craven coward and get gutted like a hog?”

  Breckinridge surprised all the men gathered on the bank of the Missouri River by throwing back his head and laughing. “You’re askin’ me if I’m gonna back down from a fight? Mister, you don’t know the Wallaces very well, and you sure as hell don’t know this one!”

  He set the rifle in his canoe, then pulled the brace of pistols from his belt and placed them beside the long-barreled flintlock. He tossed the sheathed hunting knife into the canoe as well, then turned back to face Ralston.

  “Fetch your other sw–ord,” he said, mockingly pronouncing the w in the word this time.

  “I’ll be right back,” Ralston promised. He stalked toward the other canoes.

  “Breck, don’t do this,” Morgan urged in a low voice. “He knows how to use one of those things. He’s going to kill you.”

  “He’s gonna try,” Breckinridge said, “but I reckon I’m gonna have somethin’ to say about that.”

  Morgan continued to look anxious as Ralston returned with a second saber. He held it in his left hand and slashed back and forth with it, making a hissing sound in the air.

  “You can see that this is a fine, sturdy blade,” the one-eyed major said. “It belonged to one of my fellow officers who was killed in battle against the Seminoles. I was with him when he died, and he bequeathed the weapon to me almost with his last breath. I hate to see it dishonored by being used by the likes of you, Wallace, but my honor demands satisfaction.”

  “Mighty fond of the sound of your own voice, ain’t you?” Breckinridge held out his hand. Ralston gave him the sword.

  Carnahan waved his arms and said in a loud voice, “You fellows back up now. Give ’em room.”

  Morgan put a hand on Breckinridge’s arm and said, “I still think this is a bad idea, Breck.”

  “Yeah, there’s more than just my hide ridin’ on this, ain’t there?” Breckinridge muttered. “If Ralston kills me, the rest of this bunch is liable to turn on you next.” He brightened. “Oh well, I’ll just have to make sure he don’t kill me.”

  Ralston raised his saber in front of him and said, “Let’s get on with this, Wallace.”

  Breckinridge took off his hat and tossed it into the canoe with his weapons, then turned to face Ralston. The sun was coming up now, and the major was positioned so that the bright red orb was behind him. Breck didn’t figure that was an accident, but he didn’t think it mattered much, either. Likely they would be moving around enough as they fought that the sun wouldn’t be in his eyes all the time.

  He said, “Whenever you’re ready, mister.”

  Ralston might have wanted Breckinridge to attack first, so that he could gauge his opponent’s level of speed and skill. But his urge to kill
got the better of him. As his face twisted with hatred, he lunged forward, the blade glinting redly in the dawn light as he thrust it in front of him.

  Breckinridge twisted his wrist and used his sword to slap aside Ralston’s. It was a neat parry, but as Breck launched a thrust of his own as part of the same move, Ralston darted aside from it. His blade flashed downward, but it was only a feint. When Breck went to block the attack, the tip of Ralston’s sword came up again with blinding speed. Breck had to leap backward to keep it from ripping his throat.

  That put him off-balance for a second, and his guard was down as well. Ralston leaped at him, hacking with the sword as if he intended to chop Breckinridge into little pieces. Breck gave more ground and flung up his blade. Steel rang against steel once, twice, three times in little more than the blink of an eye. Ralston’s assault was furious and deadly. Breck barely fought it off.

  Fighting with sabers really was different from a knife tussle, he realized now. Morgan had been right about that. A knife fight was close-quarters combat. To survive, a man sometimes had to strike with fist or foot as well as blade.

  A sword fight took place at longer range. It wouldn’t be as easy to kick an opponent in the belly, and you couldn’t grab him and hold him close while you drove your blade in and out of his chest half a dozen times. Speed and finesse were more important than brute strength, which was what Breckinridge had in abundance.

  However, he wasn’t exactly slow, which he proved by catching his balance and counterattacking. His blade jabbed at Ralston, who had to hurry to parry the thrusts.

  The tide of battle surged back and forth. As Breckinridge expected, he and Ralston turned and circled enough that the rising sun didn’t prove to be an advantage for either of them. Shouts rang out from the men who had formed a rough circle around them. Most were words of encouragement directed at Ralston by his fellow members of Carnahan’s expedition. The only one rooting for Breck was Morgan. Carnahan himself, though, stood with arms crossed over his broad chest and watched the fight with avid interest. He wanted to see who was going to win, but he didn’t seem to be rooting for one man over the other.