The Frontiersman

The letter was from Breckinridge’s brother Edward. It read:

This letter is one of many I have written in hopes of establishing communication with you. I intend to continue writing them and leaving them in places where you may turn up. I hoped to locate you in St. Louis, but since that effort proved a failure I have moved on to other settlements here in Missouri.

The most important thing for you to know is this: while you no doubt consider yourself to be a fugitive from the authorities, there are no charges levied against you in the matter of Jasper Carlson’s death. One of the young men who was a companion of Jasper’s and Richard Aylesworth’s on the night in question recanted the account he gave originally to the sheriff and instead told the truth of what occurred. Once that happened, several others in the group agreed with his testimony in order not to get in trouble with the law themselves. Jasper’s father was incensed, as was Richard, but there was nothing they could do. All charges against you were dismissed.

This means it is now safe for you to return home to Tennessee. With the blessing of Father and Mother I have journeyed west to deliver this good word to you. I will continue my travels until I have found you, or until I have exhausted all the places to search. In the meantime, if this letter reaches you, please come home, and in due course of time I will see you there. We are all very grateful that you no longer have anything to fear from the law, and we look forward to sharing your fraternal companionship once more.

With warmest wishes,
Your brother,
Edward Wallace

Breckinridge must have read that letter a hundred times during the months it took him to get back to Knoxville. At first he had a hard time following some of Edward’s formal, fussy sentences, but he understood the important part. He could go home without having to worry about being arrested, tried, and hanged for killing Jasper Carlson.

That didn’t change the fact that he was probably wanted by the authorities in St. Louis for Rory Ducharme’s death. But they didn’t know his name or where he was from. Somebody in Red Mike’s place might have heard Sadie call him Bill, but that wouldn’t help anybody find him. Breckinridge believed that if he steered well clear of St. Louis, he didn’t have much to worry about from the law.

The real question was . . . did he really want to go home?

Since leaving Tennessee, he had gone through considerable hardship and tragedy. He had seen people who meant something to him die suddenly and violently. He had come within a hair’s breadth of death himself on numerous occasions. He had been forced to kill to defend himself and others. Just on the surface of it, that didn’t sound like a life anyone would want. Anyone who wasn’t crazy, anyway.

But thinking about all the bad things that had happened didn’t mean he had forgotten about the good times, like traveling up the Mississippi River and feeling the great power of the Father of Waters, or waking up before dawn and watching the glory of the sun rising over the prairie. Even though he had barely begun to explore the frontier, Breckinridge had already had the experience of laying eyes on places that few white men had ever seen before. That feeling couldn’t be duplicated in Tennessee; it hadn’t been untouched wilderness for a couple of hundred years.

Breckinridge had explained what was in the letter as he and Tom Lang sat in the Red Buffalo drinking beer. He said, “Here’s the thing . . . I ain’t sure I want to go back.”

The old scout nodded solemnly and said, “I knew that was what you were about to say ’fore the words ever came outta your mouth, son. You don’t have to tell me about how the frontier gets under a fella’s skin. I come out here from Pennsylvania nigh on to thirty years ago, and I never could bring myself to go back. Had a wife and a family and ever’thing. I missed ’em, I reckon, but I couldn’t live a tame life again. I was ruint.”

“You abandoned your family?” Breckinridge said.

“Well, I felt bad about it,” Lang replied defensively. “But I sent ’em money right along, and I got a fella who could write to write my wife a letter and tell her I wouldn’t be comin’ back. Shoot, for all I know she told ever’body I was dead and married herself a new husband. I hope she did. She wasn’t a bad sort.”

Breckinridge told himself not to pass judgment on Tom Lang. Every man was responsible for his own actions, and while he might believe he knew how he would react in a certain situation, there was no way of being sure that was right until the time came.

One thing he knew, though, was that he didn’t like the way things had been left with his family, running off like that in the middle of the night with everybody worried that they would never see him again. Even if he didn’t stay, he could spend some time with his parents and brothers.

He could even see Maureen again.

That thought sent a flush of embarrassment through him. He had spent time alone on the trail with Sadie, even though nothing had really happened between them. He had done more than spend time with Laura. Those things probably made him unfit company for a proper young lady like Maureen Grantham. True, she wouldn’t know what he had done . . . but he would know.

He would figure out what to do about Maureen when he got there, he decided. For now he knew he wanted to see his family. He said as much to Tom Lang.

The old scout had nodded and said, “Sure, you go pay ’em a visit. But you’ll be back out here on the frontier, Breck. Mark my words. Sooner or later, you’ll be back.”

* * *

All the mounts used by the mapmaking expedition belonged to the U.S. Army, of course, so Breckinridge had to turn his horse over to Sergeant Falk before he left Independence. He told Falk about his plan to return home for a visit, and the gruff non-com said, “When you’re done with that, why don’t you give some thought to enlisting in the army? We could use a man like you, Wallace. You’re a ring-tailed devil in a fight.”

“I appreciate that, Sergeant, but I reckon I ain’t cut out to be a soldier.”

“Don’t like taking orders, eh?”

“Or givin’ ’em, neither,” Breckinridge replied with a grin. “I’d rather just go along and sort of just let every fella do what he thinks is best.”

“That way lies anarchy, Wallace.”

“You could be right, Sergeant,” Breckinridge said, since he wasn’t exactly sure what that two-bit word meant.

“How are you going to get where you’re going without a horse?”

Breckinridge had been careful not to mention just where “home” was. Over the past few months he had developed a natural caution and believed that it was usually better not to tell people any more about him than they had to know.

“Shank’s mare, I reckon,” he said as he glanced down at his feet. It was going to be a long walk to Tennessee, but he had done most of it before and could do it again, he supposed.

Falk frowned and said, “There’s a dispatch rider heading for Washington tomorrow. He’ll have a small escort with him. I might be able to persuade Colonel Lansing to assign a civilian scout to the detail. I doubt if the colonel will approve the added expense of wages, but he might go along with providing a horse and supplies.”

“Sergeant, that’d be a mighty nice thing for you to do. A group like that headin’ east don’t really need a scout, though, do they? It ain’t like they’ll be headin’ into Indian territory.”

“No, but there’s always the danger of cutthroats and highwaymen—”

“Who’d have to be plumb crazy to tackle an army detail.”

“Blast it, Wallace, do you want me to do you this favor or not?” Falk demanded.

Breckinridge grinned again. He said, “I sure do, Sergeant, and like I said, I’m mighty thankful to you.”

Falk’s efforts paid off, and Breckinridge was assigned to the dispatch rider’s escort. That gave him a horse for the trip across Missouri. He left the group before it reached St. Louis, however, and struck out southeast on foot.

When he came to a small town with a landing on the Mississippi River, he stayed there until he was able to land a job on a keelboat heading south to New Orleans. The captain, a bushy-browed, hawk-nosed old-timer named Dunstan, was acquainted with Christophe Marchant, and when he heard that Breckinridge had worked on the Sophie, he was glad to take him on as a member of the crew.

“I’ll be leavin’ when we get down to Memphis, though,” Breckinridge warned the captain. “I can’t go all the way to New Orleans.”

“That’s all right,” Dunstan said. “I’ve got a man laid up with a bum knee, but he ought to be better by then. You’ll be taking his place.”

That was agreeable to Breckinridge. His luck generally seemed to work out in little things like that, as if he had a guardian angel watching over him.

But he had a guardian devil, too, who took great delight in smacking him down every time he least expected it.

The trip downriver was uneventful. Dunstan’s boat, which bore the ungainly name of the Mudhen, put in at Memphis just long enough to let Breckinridge off. Breck recalled Christophe talking about what a tough town Memphis was, but he also remembered that Jack MacKenzie had traded away Hector here. Breck didn’t expect to be lucky enough to find the horse and be reunited with him . . . but stranger things had happened in his life.

That particular stroke of good fortune wasn’t to be. Breckinridge never saw Hector during the time he spent in Memphis, which was only a week. He stayed out of Blufftown, the roughest part of the settlement, and did some blacksmith work to earn enough money to buy some supplies. He figured he would do some hunting along the way and stretch the provisions out just as long as he possibly could.

The walk across Tennessee was less arduous than the one in the other direction had been, more than six months earlier. Breckinridge didn’t have to survive on roots and whatever small animals he could snare this time, but he still had some cold, hungry nights along the way. Winter was looming, so he kept moving at as fast a pace as he could manage. He wanted to be home before the worst of the weather arrived.

And now, finally, he was here, having circled around Knoxville. He trusted what Edward had told him in the letter, but that wariness was still with him. He stood on a hilltop, tall, leaner than he had been when he left but still massively powerful, with a fine rifle and a pair of pistols and a keen-edged knife he used to trim his beard and hack off some of the wild, blazing thicket of hair. He looked down at his father’s farm and watched the members of his family moving around in the late afternoon, finishing the day’s chores. The sky was overcast with thick gray clouds blown by a chilly wind. But the windows of the farm house glowed yellow with light and warmth and beckoned Breckinridge to come down and allow himself to be enfolded by all that he had left behind.

Fear struck through him. What if they realized he was different now? What if all the blood he had spilled had changed him, rendered him unfit for the companionship of normal people, even his own family? For a long moment Breckinridge was struck by the powerful impulse to turn and walk away, to go back to the new life he had started to make for himself on the frontier. Maybe that would be best for everyone concerned.

But he knew he couldn’t do that. Not after coming this far. That would be the cowardly thing to do. With his mind made up, he squared his shoulders, drew in a deep breath, and then started down the hill toward his home.

The dogs knew he was coming before anyone else did. Giant, long-haired Sammy bounded up the slope toward him, barking a raucous welcome. Ancient Max toddled along behind, taking it slow because he didn’t see well anymore. He raised his voice in barks of greeting, too, even though he might not have known who he was barking at. Breckinridge knelt to embrace both dogs as they eagerly licked his face.

Robert Wallace stepped out of the barn holding a pitchfork, tense and wary as if expecting possible trouble. He called, “Is somebody there? Who—Good Lord! Breckinridge? Is it really you?”

Thomas and Henry came out of the barn behind their father. Henry let out a whoop and charged toward Breckinridge.

“Breck!”

That shout drew Jeremiah and Samantha from the house. In seconds, Breckinridge’s brothers surrounded him, hugging him and pounding him on the back. He greeted them almost as boisterously, holding back slightly because he was bigger than all of them. Then he shook hands with his father and turned to his mother, who stared at him with disbelief in her eyes.

“I told myself I’d never see you again, so I wouldn’t be disappointed when that happened,” Samantha said. “I convinced myself of it. But now . . . here you are.”

“He’s come home,” Robert said. “Our boy’s come home.”

There was a finality to his tone, as if he expected Breckinridge to stay here forever now that he was back. Breck didn’t want to ruin this reunion by speculating about what he might do in the future, so he remained silent. He just put his arms around his mother and cradled her gently against him.

After a moment, Samantha stepped back, looking a little flustered, and said, “I have to go cook some more food. That supper I’ve got waiting won’t be nearly enough now that you’re here, Breckinridge.”

That made his brothers laugh. As they all trooped toward the house, Breckinridge said, “Edward’s not here?”

“He’s still out there somewhere on the frontier looking for you,” Robert explained. “We got a letter from him the other day, though, saying that he’d be starting home soon, so he’ll get here before winter sets in.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll see him when he gets back,” Thomas added.

Breckinridge hoped so. But he couldn’t guarantee how long he would be here. That would depend on how the visit went, he supposed.

For now, he was just going to enjoy being home.