The Darkest Winter Read online

  Running Elk glared, turned, and stalked off through the trees without looking back.

  “Well, shoot,” Breckinridge said aloud. “That started out pretty good, leastways after he quit aimin’ that arrow at me. Didn’t really turn out that way, though. Hope that didn’t make an enemy out of him.”

  He wasn’t going to spend too much time worrying about whether Running Elk would hold a grudge against him. If that turned out to be the case, he would find out about it sooner or later. Instead he scouted around the beaver dam a little more, looking for good places to set traps, and then headed back toward the clearing on the river where he had left Morgan.

  He heard voices before he got there and realized that something was wrong. Morgan shouldn’t have been talking to anybody.

  Unless some of Running Elk’s people had found him, too. At least there hadn’t been any shooting so far, Breckinridge thought as he began to hurry.

  He paused before he reached the clearing, not wanting to leave the trees and burst out into the open before he knew what was going on. Crouching, he advanced at a more deliberate pace and used the tree trunks for cover until he knelt at a spot where he could look out at the camp Morgan had been in the process of setting up when he was interrupted.

  Breckinridge’s jaw tightened as he saw Jud Carnahan and two other men standing on the bank with Morgan. They had Breck’s partner sort of surrounded, and they looked like they were ready to use the rifles they held.

  “—warned you boys,” Carnahan was saying. “You crossed us, and the men don’t like that.”

  “You mean that one-eyed son of a bitch Ralston doesn’t like us,” Morgan shot back defiantly. He didn’t lack for courage, even when he was outnumbered. “You know good and well he was behind what happened, Carnahan.”

  “The major’s my second-in-command. I’m not going to turn on him without a mighty good reason, and nobody’s given me one. You’re right about one thing, though.” Carnahan laughed. “He won’t like it if he finds out you and Wallace are squatting where we aim to do our trapping.”

  “You’ve got no right to run us off,” Morgan said. “Breck and I got here first.”

  “You’re outnumbered. I figure that gives us all the right we need.” Carnahan paused and smiled. “I’m not an unreasonable man, though. I don’t want any more bloodshed than necessary. So I’ll make you a proposition, Baxter. You and Wallace pack up and get out of here. Head back upriver until you’re completely out of the Bighorn country. I won’t say anything to Ralston about you being here, and everybody gets to go on about their business without any more killing. What do you think?”

  “I think you can go to hell,” Morgan said. Breckinridge was proud of him for that. Running away would stick in Morgan’s craw, too.

  Carnahan’s smile disappeared. He said, “That’s a damned foolish attitude to take. It’s not going to accomplish anything except to get the two of you killed. But I might lose some men, too, and I’d just as soon not do that. I’ve already had a couple of them disappear.”

  That sounded genuine to Breckinridge. Carnahan didn’t know what had happened to Hanks and Magnuson. That convinced Breck more than ever that Gordon Ralston had been the third man who’d tried to kill them at the bluff during the snowstorm. Ralston and the other two had slipped away from the party on their mission of vengeance without Carnahan knowing. Ralston hadn’t said anything about what happened once he rejoined the group, either, and they must not have noticed the grave where Hanks and Magnuson were buried. Ralston had put it over on Carnahan again.

  “This is a big country,” Morgan said. “Why don’t you go somewhere else, and take Ralston and the others with you?”

  “Because that’s not the way it works. You can do as you’re told and get out, or I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

  Breckinridge decided he had waited long enough. He straightened, stepped out of the trees, and eared back the hammer of his rifle as he lifted the weapon and aimed it at Carnahan.

  “You’ll be responsible, Carnahan,” he said, “but you won’t have to worry about it because you’ll be dead.”

  Carnahan had already stiffened at the telltale sound of the flintlock being cocked. He didn’t move for a second after Breckinridge spoke. Then he looked back over his shoulder and said, “If you shoot me, Wallace, my men will kill Baxter.”

  “You won’t know for sure, because—”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be dead,” Carnahan interrupted him. “Don’t waste my time with threats, Wallace. You’re not the sort to shoot me down in cold blood.”

  “You’re bettin’ an awful lot on bein’ right about me.”

  “Of course I am. If a bet’s worth making, it’s worth going all in on, isn’t it?”

  Their cool stares met over the sights of Breckinridge’s rifle. Carnahan didn’t seem the least bit concerned, Breck thought, and he realized that was a warning.

  Before he could do anything else, however, he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. Breckinridge had good peripheral vision. He could tell that a rifle barrel was sticking out from behind a tree trunk at the edge of the woods—and it was pointed right at him.

  Carnahan chuckled and said, “We have more of a standoff than you believed, don’t we, Wallace? My man over there could have killed you without you ever knowing he was there. But I made it clear that no one was to die here today unless I gave the order—or unless I was dead myself. So you see, if you shoot me, you’ll be dead a second later, and Baxter will follow along immediately. So what do you have to gain by bloodshed?”

  “Not a blasted thing, it seems like,” Breckinridge admitted. “But neither do you.”

  “That’s true. What you have to consider is this: Is my death worth the both of you dying?”

  Damn all this talk, Breckinridge thought. It was making his head hurt. He was built for fighting, not negotiating. He had a hunch he could duck back into the cover of the trees before Carnahan’s bushwhacker could kill him, but that would leave Morgan on his own. Breck wasn’t going to desert his friend.

  Morgan was close to the canoes. He could use them for cover if he could reach them, which would mean getting past Carnahan’s two men. They were watching the showdown between Breckinridge and Carnahan, though, and not really paying much attention to Morgan. Breck was still undecided what to do when he saw Morgan’s eyes flick toward the canoes and knew the same thoughts were running through his head.

  Breckinridge did the last thing any of them would have expected. He swung around to his right, dropped to a knee, and yelled, “Morgan, go!” as he pressed the rifle’s trigger.

  The flintlock boomed and kicked. A fraction of a second later, the hidden rifleman fired as well, but Breckinridge’s move had caught him by surprise and he wasn’t as quick getting off his shot. Breck had spotted a narrow bit of leg sticking out from behind the tree where the man was hidden, and that was his target. Blood flew as the rifle ball nicked the man’s thigh. The ball from his weapon hummed harmlessly past Breck’s head.

  At the same time, Morgan lowered his shoulder and rammed into the nearest of Carnahan’s men. The trapper yelled and went over backward. Morgan leaped past him and then left his feet in a dive that carried him behind one of the canoes. The other man twisted and fired at him, but the ball went high and splashed into the river.

  Carnahan jerked a pistol from behind his belt and triggered it at Breckinridge. Breck was already flinging himself aside, though. He rolled behind one of the trees while Carnahan’s ball chewed splinters from the trunk.

  “By God, Wallace, I’ll kill you now!” Carnahan roared. He ran for cover.

  Then everyone froze as a man screamed in agony. Breckinridge looked at the man who had just taken the missed shot at Morgan and saw that he had dropped his rifle as he staggered along the bank. He reached down to his thigh . . .

  And clutched the shaft of the arrow protruding from it.

  Chapter 13

  As the trapper’s wounded le
g gave out under him and he collapsed to the grass to lie there whimpering, at least a dozen warriors in buckskin stepped out of the trees and completely surrounded the campsite. Each man held a bow and arrow ready to fire. One of them aimed his shaft at the man Breckinridge had wounded, while the others covered Carnahan and the two men with him, including the one whose thigh was already skewered.

  Breckinridge stood up, stared at one of the Indians, and exclaimed, “Running Elk?”

  From behind the canoe where he had taken cover, Morgan called nervously, “Do you know these fellows, Breck?”

  “Yeah, I met one of ’em a few minutes ago,” Breckinridge replied. He pulled one of the pistols from behind his belt and pointed it at Carnahan, who clenched his jaw so tightly in anger that his jutting beard shivered a little. “Fella there on your left with the big nose is called Running Elk.”

  To his surprise, a laugh came from the woods behind him. Even more surprising, it was a woman’s laugh. Breckinridge turned sharply and saw a distinctly feminine figure emerge from the shadows under the trees. She wore a buckskin dress decorated with colorful beadwork. Her raven hair was done into two long braids that hung down over her shoulders.

  “My brother is a sensitive soul,” she said in English. “He would be hurt if he knew that you had identified him by the size of his nose.”

  “Well, then, don’t tell him,” Breckinridge replied. A thought occurred to him. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Dawn Wind, would it, ma’am?”

  “That is how I am called in your tongue,” she admitted. “And you must be Breck’ridge Wallace.”

  “It’s Breckinridge, actually, or just Breck. Your brother had a little trouble wrappin’ his tongue around the whole moniker. I think he wanted me to come back to his village with him so I could talk to you.”

  Carnahan said, “Damn it, Wallace, stop palavering with that squaw and tell your redskin friends not to point those arrows at us. I have wounded men who need to be tended to.”

  Breckinridge turned back to him and said, “They ain’t really my friends yet, although I hope they will be. I can’t tell ’em to do nothin’, Carnahan. They’re their own bosses. I’ll bet that if you put your men in your canoes and got the hell outta here, they’d let you go in peace.” He glanced around at Dawn Wind. “How about it?”

  She spoke in her native language. Running Elk responded with a curt nod. Dawn Wind said to Breckinridge, “These men can leave. But they are not welcome in the land of the Crow. They should not return, else it be at the cost of their lives.”

  Carnahan sputtered a little as he said, “You can’t do that! We have as much right to trap in this region as anybody else.”

  “You can take that up with the Crow,” Breckinridge said, “as long as you’re willin’ to risk your lives doin’ it. Right now, I reckon it’d be smart for you to git while the gittin’s good.”

  Carnahan glared at him for a moment longer, then gestured to his man who hadn’t been hit and said, “Come on. Let’s load these boys into the canoes.”

  One at a time, they helped the injured men into the craft that were pulled up on the bank near the canoes belonging to Breckinridge and Morgan. Both wounds were bloody but not life-threatening, Breck thought. The men did a lot of angry cursing as they were lifted into the canoes.

  Running Elk and his fellow warriors didn’t lower their bows until the canoes were out in the stream and Carnahan and the other unwounded man were paddling away from there. Breckinridge worried that they might try some rifle shots from out there on the creek, but evidently they didn’t want to risk it, as outnumbered as they were.

  When the canoes went out of sight around a bend, the Indians finally relaxed. Running Elk came over to Breckinridge and pointed at the woman, who was a year or two younger than him.

  “Dawn Wind,” he said.

  “Yeah, I figured that out,” Breckinridge said. “We’re obliged to you and your friends for your help.”

  Dawn Wind translated that for her brother, who nodded solemnly. She turned to Breckinridge again and said, “Those men are your enemies?”

  “Yeah, you could sure say that. One of ’em, especially, who wasn’t even here right now. But none of ’em like us, and the feelin’ is more than mutual. I wouldn’t trust any of that bunch as far as I could throw ’em.”

  Morgan had come up to join them. He grinned as he said, “And as big as Breck is, he could probably throw one of them a pretty good distance. I’m Morgan Baxter, by the way.”

  “This here’s Dawn Wind. Turns out Runnin’ Elk is her brother. Them and these other fellas are from a Crow village not far from here.” Breckinridge looked at Dawn Wind. “That’s right, ain’t it?”

  “It is,” she said. “And we can take you there now, if you’d like.”

  “How do you know we’re friendly?” Breckinridge asked.

  Dawn Wind laughed. “My brother said you were as big and solid as a mountain. He trusts you, and the rest of us trust him. He knows a good man when he sees him. So do I.”

  Breckinridge felt his face warming a little at that comment. He’d been accused of many things in his life, but being called a good man wasn’t all that common.

  “It’d be our pleasure to visit your village,” he told Dawn Wind. “We’ll leave our gear here.”

  “Two of our men will stand guard, just in case your enemies try to return and cause mischief.”

  “That’s a good idea. We’ll be obliged to you.”

  Running Elk and Dawn Wind led the way through the trees. Breckinridge and Morgan were right behind them, followed by the other Crow warriors who had come back with Running Elk in time to give the two white men a hand.

  Their path curved to follow the bend of the creek, and after a mile they came to an even larger clearing, this one big enough to accommodate more than three dozen tipis. A pack of barking dogs came running to meet them. On the heels of the dogs, a number of children appeared, excitedly clamoring to see the two white visitors. More warriors came forward as well and eyed them warily.

  “White trappers have come among my people many times in the past,” Dawn Wind explained to Breckinridge and Morgan. “Many were friendly, but some were not, so we remain cautious.”

  “It never hurts to be careful,” Breckinridge said.

  Running Elk called out to the men of the village in the Crow tongue. They seemed to relax slightly, although they remained watchful. One of them, older and sturdy, with his gray hair in braids and a feather adorning it, met the group and spoke to Running Elk in solemn tones. Running Elk replied in the same manner.

  “That is my father,” Dawn Wind said quietly to Breckinridge. “In your language, he would be called White Owl. He is our chief.”

  After talking with Running Elk for a moment, White Owl turned to Breckinridge and Morgan and nodded to them, his seamed face grave and expressionless. He spoke in his language.

  “My father welcomes you to our village,” Dawn Wind translated. “As long as you are friends to the Apsáalooke, the Apsáalooke will be friends to you.” She paused. “That is our name for ourselves. It means children of the large-beaked bird.”

  “Reckon that’s where Running Elk gets it, then,” Breckinridge said. For a second he thought Dawn Wind was going to laugh, but she controlled the impulse.

  “That is why the whites decided to call us the Crow,” she said instead.

  “Tell your father that we’re mighty pleased to be here and that we’ll try to be good friends to the Apsáalooke.”

  Dawn Wind passed along that sentiment, which drew a nod from White Owl. He gestured toward the largest of the tipis. Dawn Wind said, “He wishes for you to join him. You and the elders of our people will eat and smoke.”

  “That sounds mighty good to me,” Breckinridge said. He and Morgan had found a good area for trapping and had fallen in with this bunch of Indians who welcomed them in peace.

  Seemed like all the luck was running their way for a change.

  * * *

&
nbsp; Nothing happened over the next week to change Breckinridge’s opinion on that matter. After sharing a meal and smoking a pipe with White Owl and the other Crow elders, he and Morgan returned to their camp to find that nothing had been disturbed. The two warriors who had been standing guard went back to the village, and the white men slept well and undisturbed, then got up the next morning to begin running their traplines.

  These mountain streams remained icy even during the summer, so wading out into them to set the traps was chilly work. The bright sunlight warmed the men quickly, though. The work began to pay dividends almost immediately, as they found several beaver in the traps the next morning. They skinned the animals and cleaned the pelts, then stretched them out to dry.

  That pattern repeated itself every day for a week. Breckinridge didn’t want to wipe out all the beaver along this stretch of the stream, so he and Morgan began ranging farther up the creek and extending their line in that direction. That meant they were away from camp more.

  Running Elk and some of the other warriors from the Crow band came by now and then. Although Breckinridge and Morgan couldn’t talk their language, they shared food with the Indians and spent time in companionable silence, occasionally communicating a little in sign language. Running Elk brought them food as well, berries and dried meat. After several such visits, Breck asked about Dawn Wind, hoping she would be coming to see them soon, but Running Elk just shook his head curtly and offered no explanation for her absence, even in sign language.

  Morgan observed that and said with a smile, “You were hoping that gal was sweet on you, weren’t you, Breck?”

  “What? No! I never thought that. Just figured it might be nice to have somebody else to talk to who speaks the same lingo.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s all it was,” Morgan said. He chuckled as Breckinridge growled in annoyance.

  But the only reason he was annoyed, he realized, was because Morgan was right. Nobody back where Breckinridge came from would have considered Dawn Wind pretty, but to him she was strikingly attractive. She seemed smart, too, and he would have liked to know more about her, including how she had come to speak such good English.