Chapter Thirty-five
Breckinridge and Sykes took the tin cups Moffit filled for them and carried the drinks over to one of the tables, where they sat down on benches on opposite sides.
The whiskey was raw stuff that burned all the way down Breckinridge’s gullet. He coughed a little, even though he tried not to.
Sykes grinned across at him and said, “Aye, it’ll open your eyes for you, won’t it?”
“And burn a hole in your belly,” Breckinridge said hoarsely. “I’ve had some pretty potent whiskey in my time, but this stuff may be the worst.”
“Don’t let our host hear you say that. He’s liable to start with that crazy jibber-jabber again.”
Breckinridge knew what Sykes meant. Nicodemus Finch had calmed down a little, and Breck would just as soon he stayed that way while they were here.
Sykes went on, “You make it sound like you’ve had an adventurous life, Wallace. Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“There ain’t that much to tell,” Breckinridge said as his broad shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I grew up on a farm, like I told you. It was really a normal life until about a year ago.”
“What happened then?”
“I ran into some Chickasaw renegades while I was out in the woods, huntin’.”
“Huntin’ for redskins?”
“No, I was after deer. I’d always gotten along pretty well with the Injuns around home until then.” Breckinridge’s face took on a grim cast. “But these fellas jumped me, and I didn’t have any choice but to kill a couple of’em.”
Sykes leaned forward slightly and asked, “You never killed anybody before that?”
“Nope,” Breckinridge replied with a shake of his head.
“How about since then?”
That seemed like sort of an odd question for his new friend to ask, but Breckinridge always tried to be honest, so he said, “I’ve had to kill a few, red and white. I tangled with river pirates on the Mississippi and the Missouri both, and I’ve been in a few Injun fights. Had fellas get crosswise with me and try to shoot me, and I had to shoot back at ’em. I don’t like it, though. I’m a peaceable man.”
“Yes, I can see that. So am I. Circumstances have a way of forcin’ us into violence, though.”
“They sure do,” Breckinridge agreed solemnly. He took another sip of the whiskey, which was starting to seem not quite as raw as it had earlier.
Sykes said, “Listen, I thought I’d enjoy this rendezvous, but I guess I’m a bit of a solitary man, too. Havin’ this many people around sort of gives me the fantods. Think I might have myself a tramp in the woods once we’ve finished these drinks. Care to come along?”
“Thought you just said you was a solitary man.”
“Yes, but a walk with one friend is hardly the same as bein’ in a crowd.”
Given the life Sykes had described, he was probably a pretty lonely gent, thought Breckinridge. And he didn’t really have anything else to do until he could see Dulcy again.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll have to stop by my camp and get my rifle. I never go off into the woods without it.”
“That’s fine. Maybe you can teach me a little about fur trapping.”
“You’re not a trapper?” Breckinridge asked in surprise.
“Well, that’s what I came out here for, but I arrived just in time to come to this rendezvous. Thought maybe I could partner up with some experienced fellas and learn the ropes from them.”
“It’s a mite late in the season to be startin’ . . .” Sykes spread his hands and said, “Yes, but we can only do what we can do, eh?”
Breckinridge chuckled.
“That’s the truth, I reckon.” He tossed back the rest of the whiskey in his cup. “Now I got to buy you one, and then we can go.”
“Why don’t you just owe me the drink until later?” Sykes suggested. “I feel the need to stretch my legs.”
Breckinridge considered the idea and then nodded. “All right, I reckon we can do that. It’s a mite early in the day to be drinkin’ too much, anyway.”
They left the empty cups on the table and got to their feet. Breckinridge turned and led the way to the entrance. As he pushed through the canvas flap and stepped outside, he saw a wagon and a large number of riders approaching Finch’s Point. The man on horseback leading the group had white hair under his pushed-back hat.
“Hold on a minute,” Breckinridge said to Sykes. “That looks like another friend of mine. Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen him around all day. Reckon he must’ve gone to lead the rest of his bunch to the rendezvous.”
“You can see them later, surely,” Sykes said with a frown.
“Won’t take but a minute to say hello,” Breckinridge promised.
He started toward the newcomers with his long-legged strides. Sykes lagged behind him.
Powell reined in as Breckinridge met the group at the edge of Finch’s camp. Breck lifted a hand in greeting, smiled, and said, “Howdy.”
“Hello, Wallace,” Powell said in his gravelly tones. “Anything happen while I was gone?”
“Hard to say. I don’t know when you left.”
“Pulled out early this morning to go meet the Colonel.”
Powell inclined his head toward the wagon that had come up behind him. Breckinridge glanced in that direction and saw a short, broad, rusty-haired man with a beefy face. He was well-dressed, and Breck figured he had to be the Colonel.
“Well, then, no, it’s been pretty quiet around here, except for the games and the get-together,” he said. “Oh, there’s a log bridge over the creek now, so fellas can go back and forth from Finch’s to Mahone’s easier.”
“That’s a good idea,” Powell said. “Who came up with that?”
“Reckon I did,” Breckinridge admitted with a note of pride in his voice.
Powell got a thoughtful look on his rugged face and said, “You know, a fella who shows that sort of smart thinkin’ ought to meet the Colonel. He could use a man like you, Wallace.”
“I’m not lookin’ for a job,” Breckinridge said with a shake of his head, “but I don’t mind meetin’ the Colonel.”
He strode toward the wagon while Powell turned his horse and fell in alongside him. From behind Breckinridge, Sykes called, “Wallace, where are you goin’?”
“I’ll be back in a minute, Harry,” Breckinridge said over his shoulder.
When he reached the wagon, he extended his right hand to the ruddy-faced man on the seat. Powell said, “Colonel, this here is Breckinridge Wallace. You know, I told you about him?”
The Colonel grunted and said, “Of course.” His piggish eyes didn’t look very friendly, but he briefly clasped Breckinridge’s hand with his pudgy one. He gave Breck a curt nod. “Mr. Wallace.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Colonel,” Breckinridge said. “Heard a lot about you from Powell here.”
That wasn’t strictly true. Powell had said only that the Colonel intended to build a trading post somewhere out here in the mountains. Breckinridge didn’t even know the man’s real name, not that it mattered. He was trying to be polite, though, as he greeted the Colonel.
“Wallace, come on,” Sykes urged. “You were going to show me some things about settin’ traps, remember?”
“Sure, sure,” Breckinridge said easily. To Powell, he went on, “You boys gonna be around for the rest of the rendezvous?”
“I reckon we will,” the white-haired man replied.
“I’ll see you later, then.”
Breckinridge turned and started to rejoin Sykes.
He hadn’t gotten there when he heard his name being called urgently and looked around to see Morgan hurrying toward him.