The Darkest Winter Read online

  Instead, a wildly swung blow with the man’s empty pistol clipped Breckinridge on the side of the head and made red explosions go off behind his eyes. He was confident he had the advantage in size and strength, but at the moment he was disoriented and couldn’t put those advantages to good use. The man he was battling suddenly writhed away from him.

  Breckinridge surged to his feet and felt the sting of a blade that scraped along his side. The other man had a knife, too. That changed things. Breck couldn’t afford to be too careful now. He slashed in front of him with his blade but didn’t hit anything.

  “Now!” a man shouted. “Hit him high!”

  So there were two of them—at least. And they weren’t Indians, because it was unlikely they would be yelling commands in English. That left Breckinridge with a strong suspicion about who was behind this attack.

  That thought flashed through his mind, but he didn’t have any more time to devote to it because at that instant a heavy weight crashed into his torso. The impact was enough to drive him backward. His feet scrambled for purchase in the snow that had collected on top of the bluff.

  Then, suddenly, there was nothing underneath those feet except empty air . . .

  Chapter 11

  Breckinridge knew he was going to fall. There was nothing he could do about that now.

  But his left arm reached out instinctively and his hand closed on the coat worn by the man who had just rammed into him. The man yelled in fear as Breckinridge jerked him off the top of the bluff, too. Breck didn’t let go. He hung on tightly as he twisted in midair.

  That swung the man around underneath him. It all happened in a second, and Breckinridge’s lightning-fast reaction was all that saved him. The other man struck the ground first, and Breck crashed down on top of him.

  Even with that human cushion, it was a stunning, bone-jarring impact. Breckinridge thought he blacked out for a second, but on a night like this, who could tell for sure? He wasn’t stunned for long, though. He rolled to the side and came up on a knee with the knife—which he had managed to hang on to—held out in front of him.

  Nothing happened. The expected attack from the man still on top of the bluff didn’t materialize.

  Maybe if the other ambusher was alone now, he had decided to cut his losses and flee into the snowstorm. As shaken up as Breckinridge was, that would be all right with him.

  He found his way over to the bluff and moved along it, guiding himself with a hand on the sandstone wall, until he judged that he was close to the river. Then he called quietly, “Morgan! Morgan, you there?”

  “Here, Breck,” Morgan replied from a few feet away. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I reckon. I fell off the dang bluff. Actually, I got knocked off, but I took the fella who done it down with me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Back yonder somewhere. I, uh, landed on top of him, so I figure he’s probably busted up pretty good. Did you run into any trouble?”

  “No, I’ve been waiting here to see what was going to happen. Do you know how many of them there were?”

  “At least one more,” Breckinridge replied. “But I’ve got a hunch he’s already turned tail and run. I’m gonna gather up my guns and make sure.”

  He found his rifle and the other pistol and reloaded the pistol he had fired, working by feel in the darkness but having no trouble performing an action he had done so many times before. Then, with a pistol in each hand, he climbed to the top of the bluff again and cast back and forth—being careful not to topple off a second time—until he was sure there wasn’t anyone lurking up there.

  When he came back into camp, Morgan must have heard him, because he said, “Breck, is that you?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t find anybody else.”

  “I checked these two as best I could. They’re both dead. I have no idea who they were, though.”

  “Reckon we’ll find out come morning, when we can see again. I don’t want to build another fire. Their partner could still be lurkin’ around out there, hopin’ to take a rifle shot at us if he gets the chance.”

  “That’s a good idea. I don’t think we should risk it, either.”

  Breckinridge found his blankets and said, “We might as well get some more sleep.”

  “You can sleep with a couple of corpses lying only a few yards away?”

  “If they’re dead, they won’t be hurtin’ nobody else.”

  Morgan let out a humorless laugh. “I can’t argue with your logic, but I don’t think I’ll be sleeping any more tonight.”

  “Up to you,” Breckinridge said, “but I reckon I’ll sleep just fine.”

  * * *

  The snow had stopped by morning, as Breckinridge predicted, but enough fell after the attack so that the faces of both corpses had a light dusting of white on them. When Breck brushed the flakes off features that had gone pallid with death, he and Morgan recognized both men.

  “That’s Hanks,” Morgan said as he gestured toward the man Breckinridge had shot. “The other one was called . . . was it Magnuson?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Breckinridge said. He hunkered on his heels next to the bodies. “Don’t reckon I’ll ever make a blind shot that lucky again.”

  He pointed to the wound in Hanks’s neck. The pistol ball had entered under the man’s chin and bored up through his brain before exploding out the top of his head. When checking on him the night before, Morgan had rolled him onto his back, so the damage that had been done when he fell face-first onto the rocks around the fire was visible, too. His features were so battered and swollen, it was a wonder they recognized him.

  Magnuson’s face was unmarked, although the back of his head was a bloody ruin where it had been crushed by the fall and by Breckinridge’s weight coming down on top of the man. He probably had some broken ribs, too, although it was unlikely he had experienced any pain from them. The shattered skull would have killed him almost instantly.

  “Do you think Carnahan sent them after us?” Morgan asked as Breckinridge got to his feet.

  “Could have. Hard to say. The other man I heard up on the bluff could’ve been Ralston. I wouldn’t put it past him to sneak off and try to settle the score with me. He could’ve talked these fellas into comin’ along with him.”

  “If that’s true, it was the worst mistake they ever made.”

  “And the last one,” Breckinridge said.

  Morgan heaved a sigh. “What are we going to do with them?”

  “Reckon the decent thing would be to bury ’em. I ain’t in much of a mood to do it, but sometimes you have to do things you don’t really want to.”

  Breckinridge had learned that over the past few years, often the hard way.

  They had a shovel among their gear and took turns using it to scrape out a shallow grave big enough for both corpses. When the bodies were covered up, Breckinridge found some slabs of sandstone that he placed on top of the mounded dirt as a further bar to predators. The rocks would serve as a makeshift marker as well. Morgan got out his knife and carved the names of both men into one of the slabs. Weather would erode the sandstone quickly, but at least the dead men would have a monument for a while.

  As Morgan stepped back after finishing that chore, he said, “When Carnahan and the others come along, they’re liable to see these rocks and investigate. That’ll be another mark against us, Breck. They’ll try to kill us on sight from now on.”

  “They were probably gonna do that anyway,” Breckinridge pointed out. “So we already knew to be careful and watch out for ’em.”

  “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.” Morgan shook his head. “And here I thought this would be a nice, peaceful fur trapping expedition.”

  “Should’ve known better’n that,” Breckinridge said.

  * * *

  They moved out a short time later. The delay caused by the burial of Hanks and Magnuson might give Carnahan’s party a better chance to catch up to them, Breckinridge thought, so he set a fast pace as he pad
dled up the river. The sky was still overcast, although no snow fell, and the air was cold.

  After a while, Morgan said from the other canoe, “Breck, you’re going to have to slow down. I can’t keep this up.”

  “All right,” Breckinridge said. “We’ll take it easy for a spell. I just wanted to put some distance betwixt us and them other fellas.” He spat over the side. What they were doing felt like running away, and that galled him. But as long as he had Morgan’s life to think of, too, he had to be more careful. He had a history of being reckless, no matter what the odds against him, and sometimes that tendency had wound up hurting other people more than it did him.

  During the afternoon, the clouds finally broke up, the sun came out, and the temperature warmed somewhat. By that night, when they made camp in a clump of aspen not far from the river, the wind had turned around to the south. Winter’s last gasp was over, Breckinridge thought.

  The pleasant days continued as they traveled northward, through the lands of the Arikara, the Mandan, and the Hidatsa. Several times they stopped at Indian villages, where they were made welcome, especially when they proved willing to trade some of the goods they had brought along with them. Morgan enjoyed these intervals so much he might have been willing to stay with the Indians for a while, but Breckinridge knew they had to push on.

  The Missouri River made its great, arching curve to the west. Snowcapped peaks were visible now, far in the distance, along with ranges of low hills that were much closer. The mountains seemed to recede every day, so that no matter how long Breckinridge and Morgan paddled, their destination was no closer when they stopped in the evening than it had been when they started that morning.

  Breckinridge knew that was just an illusion, though. He and Morgan were getting closer, and it was just a matter of time until they reached the mountains.

  They veered off into another stream that Breckinridge thought was the Yellowstone and followed it, traveling southwest now. After a couple of days they turned due south into yet another tributary. “I reckon this is the river they call the Bighorn,” Breck told Morgan. To the left rose a range of good-sized mountains. Farther off to the right were more mountains, larger and more rugged.

  In between, in front of Breckinridge and Morgan, lay a broad, rolling, beautiful green valley abundantly watered by the creeks that flowed from the mountains on both sides. Wildflowers, coaxed into blooming by the increasingly warm weather, were scattered in colorful profusion. From where they paddled in the stream, the two young men saw plenty of deer, antelope, and moose. Breck even spotted a couple of bears, gaunt from their winter’s hibernation, pawing through thickets in search of something to break their long fast. Eagles perched in the upper branches of tall trees or soared through the blue sky.

  Even though Breckinridge had never been in this particular valley before, he felt like he had come home at last.

  He pointed to the mouth of a creek and said, “I got a feelin’ there’s a bunch of fat, sassy beavers up that stream, just waitin’ for us to come get their pelts.”

  “If you think that’s a good place for us to start, it’s all right with me. I trust your judgment, Breck.”

  “Let’s go take a look.” Breckinridge dipped his paddle in the water and sent the canoe gliding toward the creek mouth.

  The smaller stream was a couple of feet deep and thirty feet wide in most places. The water was crystal clear as it flowed swiftly over a rocky bed. Breckinridge reached over the side of the canoe and scooped up a handful, brought it to his mouth. The water was cold and tasted good. These mountain streams were fed by springs and snowmelt, and both those sources provided good water.

  After a couple of miles, they came to a sand and gravel bank that would be a good place for them to go ashore, Breckinridge thought. He paddled over to it with Morgan right behind him. They got out and dragged the canoes onto a stretch of grassy, level ground. Breck looked around. Trees grew nearby, but there was enough open area for a camp.

  “If there are any beaver dams close by, we can make this our headquarters for a while,” Breckinridge said.

  “It’ll do fine for tonight’s camp, anyway,” Morgan said. “Why don’t you scout around a little while I unload our gear?”

  Breckinridge picked up his rifle out of the canoe and nodded. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

  He tramped toward the trees that grew all the way up to the bank farther south. They weren’t so dense that he had any trouble making his way through them, although the shadows were fairly thick under the branches. Breckinridge was watchful. He didn’t expect to run into any real trouble, but a man could never be too careful.

  When he had gone half a mile through the trees, he spotted something between the rough-barked trunks. As he came closer, he realized that the creek had curved and now ran more in front of him. And across that creek stretched a humped, brown, irregular barrier made of branches. It was a beaver dam, Breckinridge thought as he grinned. Proof positive that he and Morgan would find good trapping in these parts.

  The noise of the creek as it bubbled and danced over the rocks filled the air, but that wasn’t enough to keep Breckinridge from hearing a faint snap from somewhere behind him. Someone or something had just stepped on a twig. He turned sharply and lifted the rifle, although he didn’t bring it to his shoulder just yet.

  Instead he stood stock-still and looked through the trees at a buckskin-clad figure who held a bow with its string pulled back and an arrow nocked. The arrow was aimed straight at Breckinridge.

  Chapter 12

  It was an even bet what would happen next. Breckinridge thought he stood a good chance of being able to leap aside, out of the arrow’s path, before it could strike him. Then he’d have a heartbeat, at most, to raise the rifle and shoot the Indian before the man could launch another shaft at him. It would be close.

  On the other hand, the Indian hadn’t loosed that first arrow yet, so Breckinridge steeled his muscles to control the reaction that urged him to move. He just stood there, looking across the twenty feet or so that separated him from the Indian.

  Seconds crawled past. Breckinridge’s impatient nature got the better of him. He said, “If you’re figurin’ on killin’ me, son, you’ve done missed your best chance already. Try it now and I’ll get lead in you before I go down, that’s for damn sure. On the other hand, if you put that bow down, neither of us has to shoot anybody.”

  He had no way of knowing if the Indian spoke any English. Probably not, considering how far from civilization they were. But trappers and missionaries had been trekking into these mountains for more than twenty years now, Breckinridge told himself, so it was possible the young warrior understood what he said.

  And the Indian was young, probably around the same age as him. He wore no war paint on his face, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. Breckinridge didn’t recognize the markings and decorations on the warrior’s buckskins. He knew that both the Crow and the Arapaho could be found in this region, so he figured the man came from one of those tribes.

  Finally, the warrior let off on the pressure he’d been putting on the bowstring. He lowered the arrow toward the ground but left it nocked. He spoke in a harsh voice to Breckinridge, who couldn’t make out any of the words. Some things were universal, though. At least Breck hoped so as he let go of the rifle with his right hand and raised it in front of him, palm out toward the young Indian.

  “Friend,” Breckinridge said. “I’m not lookin’ for trouble.”

  The Indian stared at him for a long moment, then grunted and took the arrow off the bowstring. He slid it into the hide quiver slung on his back. He seemed to have gotten the idea and didn’t want any trouble, either. To show he went along with that, Breckinridge pointed the rifle at the ground.

  The young warrior walked toward him and lifted a hand in a gesture of peace, too. “Friend,” he said in a guttural voice, proving that he knew at least one word in the white man’s tongue. He put that hand against his chest and went o
n, “Running Elk.”

  Breckinridge nodded, rested a hand against his own chest, and said, “Breckinridge Wallace.”

  That was a mouthful for the Indian. He managed, “Breck . . . ridge,” then said again, “Friend.”

  “That’s right. We’re friends. Running Elk”—and he pointed to the Indian—“and Breckinridge.” Pointing to himself. “Friends.”

  Running Elk looked as solemn as ever, but he nodded. Breckinridge was pleased by how well they were communicating. He tried to remember some of the sign language he had seen old scouts and trappers use in the past. He hoped he was making the correct sign as he asked out loud, “Is your village close by?”

  Evidently he must have gotten it right, because Running Elk half turned and pointed toward the east as he said something. Breckinridge couldn’t make out any of it except the last two words, which surprised him by being in English.

  “Dawn Wind.”

  “Dawn Wind,” Breckinridge repeated. “Is that somebody’s name?”

  Running Elk didn’t answer. He just pointed again and motioned for Breckinridge to follow him.

  Breckinridge shook his head, pointed back downstream, and said, “My friend is there. His name’s Morgan. Come on with me, and I’ll introduce you to him.”

  Running Elk frowned and gestured again, more insistently this time. “Dawn Wind,” he said again.

  “Yeah, I reckon so, but I don’t want to go off with you and leave Morgan behind. He’d wonder where I’d gotten off to. Come with me, and we’ll get him. Then we can pay a visit to your village.”

  Running Elk shook his head, even though judging by his expression he didn’t understand much, if anything, of what Breckinridge had just said. Stubbornly, he motioned again for Breck to follow him.

  “Sorry,” Breckinridge said. “I reckon I’ll have to visit your village some other time. I need to get back to camp ’fore my partner gets worried and starts lookin’ for me.”