Chapter Thirty-three
Morgan sauntered up a short time later with a pleased expression on his face. Breckinridge took one look at him, grinned, and said, “I reckon you had a good night.”
“Annie is quite a woman,” Morgan said with a sigh.
“I thought you already bedded that skinny Francesca.”
“Well, hell, I’m young, aren’t I? Fellas our age bounce back quick.”
With a sour look on his face, Akins said, “I don’t remember that far back.”
Morgan’s expression grew more serious as he asked, “What happened over there last night, Breck?”
Breckinridge had to tell the story yet again. At least this was the last time, he thought. Anybody else asked him, he would tell them it was none of their damn business.
Morgan couldn’t come up with an explanation for the attack, either. He shook his head and said, “It almost sounds like somebody with a grudge against you followed you out here, but that’s kind of crazy.”
“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” Breckinridge said.
A frown creased his forehead, though, as he thought about what Morgan had said. He had left some enemies back home, and he had made more on the way west. It seemed unlikely to think that any of them would come this far simply to seek revenge on him, but he supposed he couldn’t rule it out until he had more evidence to go on.
For the time being, he was going to try to enjoy the rendezvous. With the fur business shrinking, it was only a matter of time until these annual affairs wouldn’t take place anymore. He wanted to experience all this one had to offer.
The first order of business was to dispose of their pelts. Around midday, a couple of wagons rolled in. A short, bald man incongruously outfitted in a tweed suit and a coonskin cap was on the seat of the lead wagon, and many of the trappers greeted him with friendly shouts of “Hey, Stubby!”
“Who’s that?” Breckinridge asked Akins as they were drawn to the commotion like the others.
“One of the fur buyers,” Akins answered. “I never did business with him myself, but I’ve heard of him. Name’s Blaine, I think, but everybody calls him Stubby.”
The newcomer didn’t waste any time getting down to business. A couple of the men who’d come with him took a table from one of the wagons and set it on the ground. Blaine placed a chair behind it and declared himself ready to deal, adding in a gravelly voice at odds with his small stature, “I’m the first one here, gents, so you know what that means. I get the pick of the pelts, and I pay the best prices. So grab your furs and let’s get started.”
Morgan held their place in line while Breckinridge and Akins went to fetch the pelts. They brought Fulbright back with them. Once the furs were sold, he wouldn’t have to stand guard over them anymore. That would be the responsibility of Stubby Blaine and his men.
Quietly, Breckinridge asked Morgan, “Do you know what a good price is for a load of pelts like this?”
“No,” Morgan admitted, “but Roscoe does. We’ll let him handle the dickering.”
“I’ll do the best I can, boys,” Akins promised.
When their turn came, Breckinridge lifted the heavy bales onto the table. Stubby Blaine pawed through the furs, examining some of them closely, seemingly paying little attention to others. After several minutes, he nodded, looked up at Breck and the other three, and announced his offer.
Akins frowned and said, “No offense, but that seems a mite on the low side to me.”
One of the big, burly men who had come to the rendezvous with Blaine made a low growling sound in his throat and started to step forward.
Blaine lifted a hand to rein in his assistant and gave Akins a friendly smile.
“None taken,” he said, “but you haven’t dealt with me before, have you, friend?”
“Nope,” Akins said. “I’ve always taken my pelts to a tradin’ post or down the river to St. Louis.”
“All right, because of that I’m not going to be insulted by your comment. I’ll just tell you that no one who comes to the rendezvous pays as well for furs as Hobart Blaine. If you don’t believe that, you’re free to go and ask around.” A touch of steel came into the little man’s voice as he went on, “But if you take these pelts off the table now and come back with them later, after you’re satisfied with my bona fides, I can promise you that the offer won’t be as high. These are good pelts, and I’ve offered you a good deal.”
Akins glanced nervously at his partners.
“What do you boys think?”
Before the others could answer, Blaine said, “Tell you what. I’ll sweeten the deal a little and add . . .” He appeared to think about it. “Ten more dollars to the price.”
Breckinridge caught Akins’s eye and nodded. He had seen a lot of horse trading going on back in Tennessee, and he figured Blaine had been prepared to pay that price all along. It was possible they could nudge him up a little more if they were stubborn about it. But Breck’s pa had taught him it was better to cultivate a good relationship with those a fella did business with, rather than trying to gouge every single nickel out of them. That way it was more likely there would be another deal to do next time.
“All right,” Akins said. “We’re obliged to you, Mr. Blaine.”
“Oh hell, call me Stubby,” Blaine said with a grin. He gestured to his men to take the pelts and load them in one of the wagons. While they were doing that, Blaine took a buckskin pouch from inside his coat and counted out coins from it until he had the agreed-upon amount lying on the table. He pushed them across to Akins. “Pleasure doin’ business with you.”
“Likewise,” Akins told him.
As the four trappers walked away, Akins split up the gold and silver pieces among them. With that taken care of, there was nothing left for them to do during the rest of the rendezvous except enjoy themselves.
“Reckon I’ll go see Annie,” Morgan declared.
“You owe her some for last night, I expect,” Fulbright said. “These gals ain’t in it for fun, you know.”
“Annie wouldn’t charge me. Not after the way we hit it off so well.” Morgan shrugged and ignored the grins the other men gave him. “But I’ll pay her some anyway, just so she won’t get in trouble with that crazy old Nicodemus Finch.”
“And I’d better square things with Dulcy,” Breckinridge said. “Before I do, though . . .”
He told the other three his brainstorm about making a log bridge across the creek. They agreed it was a good idea.
“You find a good log,” Akins told Breckinridge. “I’ll go round up enough fellas to lift it.”
“You come with me, Morgan,” Breckinridge said. “Annie won’t mind waitin’ a while before she sees you again.”
“I don’t know about that. She seemed mighty taken with me.”
Breckinridge doubted if Annie was completely sincere about that, but he supposed it was possible. Soiled doves could fall for a fella same as any other gal. Morgan came along with him as he searched for a suitable log, albeit a little grudgingly.
It didn’t take them long to find a fallen cottonwood with a straight, fairly thick trunk. All its limbs had been chopped off and used for firewood, leaving only the bare trunk. Breckinridge tried to pick up one end by himself. Even his prodigious strength could barely budge it.
“This one ought to do fine,” he said. “Go find Roscoe.”
Morgan came back a few minutes later with Akins, Fulbright, and half a dozen other roughly dressed men. With the exception of Fulbright, who couldn’t lift because of his wounded arm, they all spaced themselves at intervals along the trunk and bent to get hold of it.
“Ready, boys?” Breckinridge said. “Heave!”
With grunts of effort they lifted the long, heavy tree trunk into the air and started carrying it toward the creek.
They hadn’t gotten there yet when Nicodemus Finch rushed up to them with an agitated look on his billy-goat face.
“Here now!” Finch cried. “What’re you moss-brained weehawkers doin’ with that log?”
“They’re gonna make a bridge out of it,” Fulbright explained. All the men carrying the log were straining too much under its weight to spare the breath for an answer.
“A bridge to where?” Finch asked. “That pitiful bunch o’ spavined, ragtag varmints on the other side o’ the creek?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“No! No, you can’t do that! You fellas don’t need to be goin’ back and forth. You’ll go over there and drink Mahone’s pathetic excuse for likker and associate with his unclean whores, and there ain’t no tellin’ what kind o’ damn pox you’ll bring back over here!”
Attracted by the yelling, Mahone had appeared on the other side of the stream and came close enough to hear Finch’s ranting. He shouted, “My whiskey’s a lot better and my gals a lot cleaner than anything you’ll find over there in Finch’s camp, boys! Put that log right across the creek there! It’ll make a fine bridge!”
That was no surprise, thought Breckinridge as he carried the front end of the log toward the creek. If Finch didn’t want something, Mahone was bound to insist vehemently on it. It would have worked the other way around if Finch had been in favor of the makeshift bridge.
“Damn it, I say don’t do it!” Finch howled.
Breckinridge and the other men ignored him. Breck waded into the creek at a spot he thought was narrow enough that the log would span it. The water was cold through his boots and buckskins, but he ignored it. The other men splashed into the stream behind him.
The log was long enough to reach the opposite bank with several feet to spare on each end. Breckinridge turned his head and called to the men Akins had recruited, “All right, fellas, let’s set ’er down nice and easy!”
They lowered the log into place, then climbed out onto the bank to check out their handiwork. Morgan walked to the center and turned to grin at Breckinridge and the others.
“Works just fine,” he proclaimed. “I think we ought to name this the Breckinridge Wallace Memorial Bridge, since it was your idea, Breck.”
“I don’t want any credit,” Breckinridge said. “Just figured it might make things a little easier for everybody, that’s all.”
“And it was a fine idea, too,” said one of the men who had helped carry the log. He stuck out his hand and went on in a voice that held a trace of a British accent, “It’s good to meet you, Wallace. My name’s Harry Sykes.”