Chapter Seven
Many times over the next few weeks, Breckinridge dreamed of being chased. He heard the thundering hoofbeats of a posse pursuing him. The baying of bloodhounds haunted his dreams, along with the angry voices of men shouting “String him up!” and “Hang the murderer!”
From time to time he even dreamed about that night on the road east of Knoxville, and it seemed that he could change what had happened. All he had to do was wake up while Jasper Carlson was still alive . . .
But when he woke, Jasper was still dead, and there wasn’t a blessed thing Breckinridge could do about it. He was still a wanted fugitive, and he always would be.
For all practical purposes, though, every mile he put between him and Knoxville increased his chances that so-called justice would never catch up to him. Rich man’s justice, he thought bitterly sometimes as he rode through the night, along narrow trails and through unfamiliar woods, guided only by the stars as he listened to the lonely hooting of owls and fought against the empty feeling inside him.
Fortunately, it wasn’t like that all the time. At first he traveled only at night, hiding out in gullies or thickets during the day when he might be seen, but as he began to curve more to the west, farther from Knoxville, he grew bolder. He hadn’t spotted any signs of pursuit and thought it might be safe to ride during the day as long as he avoided the main roads.
That allowed him to take a good look at the new country through which he passed. It really wasn’t that much different from the landscape around home—rugged, wooded hills slashed with gullies and divided by valleys where farmers earned their living from the land—but it was new territory to Breckinridge and he savored everything about it.
He avoided settlements and people as much as he could. Now and then he would meet somebody on the road, usually a farmer driving a mule-drawn wagon, but they were as taciturn as he was and had little or nothing to say.
That went against Breckinridge’s nature, because he’d always been the sort to talk to anybody and everybody, and his pa had said sometimes that Breck could talk the ears off a brass monkey. Breck had never actually seen a brass monkey, but he’d heard plenty about them from Pa.
He shot game when he could, filled his water skin at every passing creek. He began to long for company. He enjoyed exploring like this, but he wasn’t really cut out for a solitary life.
Both Breckinridge and Hector began to grow lean, almost gaunt. Breck’s supplies were low. He didn’t want to venture into a town. Folks would be liable to remember somebody as big as he was, and if the law came around looking for him and asking questions, they might pick up his trail.
He figured he might could risk stopping at some isolated farm, though. Maybe if whoever lived there had enough supplies on hand, he could trade some work for a few staples. He had never really liked chores, but he could do them. He was a regular wizard, in fact, at things like splitting firewood.
When he spotted a farmhouse and a small barn sitting by themselves in a valley, he sat for a long time on the ridge overlooking the scene. After a good while, he decided to ride down there and see how things went.
A heavyset old man limped out of the barn as Breckinridge rode in. The farmer wore overalls and had a floppy-brimmed hat pushed back on a mostly bald head. Tufts of white hair stuck out above each ear. When Breck came closer he saw that the old-timer had a face like a bulldog. The old man grinned and said, “How do. Lord have mercy, you’re a big ’un, ain’t you?”
Breckinridge returned the grin and said, “Yeah, and I’m not sure I’ve got my full growth yet.”
“I hope for the sake o’ that there hoss that you have, otherwise you’re liable to break the poor animal’s back. Light and stay a spell, if you’re of a mind to. Name’s Yancy Humboldt.”
“B-Bill,” Breckinridge said. He’d almost given the old man his real name out of habit. He had to break that habit, and the sooner the better.
“Well, Buh-Bill, are you gettin’ down or not? If you ain’t, I’ll get back to my work.”
“What are you doin’? Maybe I could lend a hand.”
“In return for some supper?” Yancy Humboldt asked shrewdly.
“And maybe a few supplies?”
Humboldt frowned in apparent thought for a second or two, then waved Breckinridge forward.
“Mule kicked some slats outta his stall. Sound like somethin’ you could fix?”
“Sure,” Breckinridge answered. He had done some carpentry work around the farm, although Edward was always better at that sort of thing.
“Do a good job and we’ll see. Might be able to spare a few things.” Humboldt pointed. “You can water your hoss at that trough over there. I can find some grain for him, too. Poor critter probably needs some rest if he’s been carryin’ you for very long.”
“He’s pretty strong,” Breckinridge said as he dismounted.
“He’d have to be.”
As they went into the barn, Breckinridge could tell that Humboldt limped because of a twisted right leg. He nodded toward it and asked, “What happened to your leg? If you don’t mind talkin’ about it, that is.”
“And if I do mind?”
“Well, it ain’t none of my business, so I wouldn’t ask again. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“Bear got hold of it when I was a young man and durned near pulled it off. Ripped the hell out of it with his claws, too. Reckon I’d have been a goner if my friend Dan’l hadn’t shot the bear, patched me up as best he could, and then packed me outta the woods back to where I could get some real help.”
“Dan’l, eh?” Breckinridge chuckled. “Wouldn’t be talkin’ about Dan’l Boone, would you?”
“As a matter o’ fact, I am,” Humboldt replied. “This was up in Kentucky, not far from Boonesborough.”
Breckinridge stared at him and said, “You’re serious.”
“I should hope to smile I’m serious!”
“You really knew Daniel Boone?”
“Broke many a trail with him in the old days, at least until I tangled with that dang bear.” Humboldt pointed into a stall with several broken planks on one side. “There she be. I’ll leave you to it. You ought to be able to finish by suppertime. If you don’t, you won’t eat. Do a poor job, and you won’t eat, neither. Understand?”
Breckinridge barely heard the question. He said, “Can you tell me about Daniel Boone?”
“Best man I ever knowed at times, and a damned fool at others. Just like most men. I thought you was gonna fix that stall. Boards and a hammer and nails are out back.”
Breckinridge had a hunch that Humboldt could be talkative, but only when he wanted to be. It might be better to go ahead and repair the stall and save the conversation for later.
One thing he had to know first, though.
“Has anybody, uh, come around here lookin’ for somebody like me?” He added hastily, “I mean, there might be some friends of mine in these parts.”
“You mean has anybody been lookin’ for a galoot as tall as a tree, with bright red hair? Naw, I reckon I’d remember somethin’ like that . . . Buh-Bill.”
Breckinridge could tell from the old farmer’s voice that Humboldt suspected he was running from something. The old-timer didn’t seem worried by that possibility, though. He repeated the warning about getting done with the task by suppertime and then left Breckinridge in the barn.
* * *
Breckinridge pried out the broken boards and nailed new ones in their place. It was a pretty simple job, really. The mule that had caused the damage stood inside the stall, stolidly ignoring him. Breck worked from outside the stall, not wanting to venture in there with a mule that was known to kick. That was a good way for a fella to get his head bashed in.
When he was finished, he took hold of the new boards and gave them a good shake. They seemed plenty solid, so he nodded in satisfaction and put the hammer and the rest of the nails back where he’d found them. He walked out of the barn and went toward the house.
Yancy Humboldt must have seen him coming. The old-timer stepped out onto the porch, and this time he had a shotgun tucked under his arm.
“Got done out there, did ya?” he called.
“That’s right,” Breckinridge said. “You want to come have a look at what I did?”
Humboldt shifted the shotgun’s twin barrels so they pointed more in Breckinridge’s direction and said, “Maybe later. Right now you can just stop right there where you are.”
Breckinridge stopped thirty or forty feet short of the house as the old-timer said, but he frowned in confusion.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Humboldt?” he asked. “I thought we were makin’ a trade. The work I done in exchange for supper and some supplies.”
“That’s right, but there weren’t nothin’ said about you comin’ in the house to eat that meal or pick up them supplies. You can do that just as good out here.”
Breckinridge was puzzled by the farmer’s attitude, but then he saw the crude homespun curtain over one of the windows twitch a little, and when he looked closer he caught a glimpse of a face peering out at him.
It was a girl’s face, and from what Breckinridge could see of it, a pretty one, too. But then the curtain dropped back and he couldn’t see her anymore.
Breckinridge understood now. Humboldt didn’t want him setting foot in the house because he had a daughter or a granddaughter or, shoot, maybe even a wife in there, and he didn’t trust Breck to be around her.
That was a mite insulting, Breckinridge thought. His ma had raised him to always be polite to females. He could be a little rough around the edges sometimes, that was true, but he liked to think he was a gentleman when he needed to be, too.
He supposed he could see how come Humboldt felt the way he did, though, living out here a good long ways from civilization. It was natural for him to be protective of the girl, whoever she was.
“That’s fine, Mr. Humboldt,” Breckinridge said. “Out here or in there, it don’t really matter to me. I appreciate your hospitality either way.”
Humboldt looked a little flustered by Breckinridge’s politeness. He let the shotgun’s barrels sag toward the ground.
“I reckon you can come up here and sit on the porch,” he said gruffly. “But that’s all.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.”
Breckinridge climbed the three steps to the porch while Humboldt went back inside. A few minutes later the old-timer brought him a bowl of stew with chunks of roast beef and wild onions and carrots floating in it. Humboldt handed him a piece of bread torn off a larger loaf, as well, and asked, “You got anything to carry those supplies in?”
“There’s an empty burlap sack on my saddle.”
Humboldt fetched the sack and limped back inside. When he came back out the sack was bulging with provisions.
“You set right there and eat while I go take a look at that work you done,” Humboldt said. “You budge off this porch and you’ll be sorry.”
“I’ll be right here,” Breckinridge promised. Since all the trouble back home, he was more determined than ever not to get mixed up in any more ruckuses. Knowing himself as he did, he wasn’t sure that resolve would last, but he was going to try to stay out of hot water, anyway.
The stew was good. He figured the girl he’d seen at the window had made it, although he couldn’t be sure. He wondered idly if Humboldt was keeping her here against her will. He didn’t seem like the sort of fella who would do such an ungodly thing, but you couldn’t ever tell. Just because the farmer had been friends with Daniel Boone didn’t mean the old man could do no wrong.
Humboldt came back from the barn and said, “You done a fine job, young fella. I’d say we made a fair trade. Now you can finish up that stew and be movin’ along.”
“It’ll be night soon,” Breckinridge pointed out. “I’ll be lookin’ for a place to stay.”
“It won’t be here.” Humboldt’s voice was flat, brooking no argument.
“Sure,” Breckinridge said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Whatever you say, Mr. Humboldt.”
“Dang right.”
Breckinridge used the bread to sop up the last of the juices from the stew, then handed the empty bowl to the farmer. Breck picked up the sack of supplies and said, “I’m much obliged to you. I’d say that I’ll stop by and say howdy if I’m ever in this part of the country again, but I don’t expect to be.”
“No, I reckon you better keep on to wherever it is you’re headed, Buh-Bill. But tell you what . . . if those so-called friends you mentioned come around lookin’ for you, I’ll tell ’em I ain’t seen you.”
“That’d be best,” Breckinridge agreed solemnly. He tied the supplies to the saddle, then mounted up and rode out without looking back.
He had ridden about half a mile before he said out loud, “Dang it, I never did get him to tell me about bein’ on the scout with Daniel Boone!”
* * *
Breckinridge traveled another couple of miles before he found a place to camp for the night in a thicket of trees. Since he’d already had his supper, he didn’t even have to build a fire. At this time of year the weather was pleasant enough that he didn’t need one for warmth, either, although it could still be a mite chilly early in the mornings.
Instead he picketed Hector where the horse had some graze, spread his blankets in a reasonably comfortable spot, and rolled up in them to go to sleep.
His rifle, pistol, and knife were close beside him, and when something roused him from slumber an unknown amount of time later, his hand reached out unerringly in the darkness and closed around the pistol butt. He lifted the weapon from the ground in complete silence and curled his thumb over the hammer, ready to cock and fire.
Renegade Indians could be anywhere, and so could thieves. If somebody wanted to rob him, either of his hair or his belongings, they were in for an unpleasant surprise.
Instead he was the one who got the surprise as a female voice called softly, “Hey! Hey, mister, are you in there? Don’t shoot, I’m comin’ in.”