Chapter Twenty-five
Breckinridge reacted instinctively, swinging the bucket up so that it blocked Morgan’s arm. The bucket cracked hard against the young man’s wrist. He cried out in pain as his fingers opened and he dropped the razor.
“Have you lost your mind, Baxter?” Breckinridge demanded angrily. “You tried to cut me!”
Morgan bellowed, lowered his head, and charged. Morgan was a good-sized man, but he probably wouldn’t have been able to budge Breckinridge if not for the fact that Breck was standing a little lower on the bank where it sloped down to the river, and he was slightly off balance.
Morgan rammed his head into Breckinridge’s chest. Breck went over backward, but he grabbed Morgan and took the other man with him. Water flew up in a huge splash as they landed in the Missouri River.
Morgan slugged away at Breckinridge, but the blows were wild and frenzied and most of them missed their target. Breck was able to shrug off the ones that landed. He grabbed Morgan’s shoulders and shoved him away, then rolled over, thrashing a little in the water, and struggled to his feet.
The commotion had drawn the other men to the riverbank, including Colonel Baxter. The colonel called, “What the devil’s going on here? Morgan, is that you?”
Morgan came up out of the river smeared with mud and with water streaming off his clothes. He lunged at Breckinridge again and swung a punch. Breck didn’t want to hurt him, so he leaned aside and let Morgan’s fist go past him. Using Morgan’s own momentum against him, Breck grabbed him under the arms and heaved him onto the bank. He landed rolling as the other men jumped back to get out of the way.
“Here now!” the colonel shouted. “Stop that! Stop that, I say!”
Breckinridge was more than willing to stop fighting, but that was going to be up to Morgan. When Morgan stopped rolling, he pushed himself up on his hands and knees and glared murderously at Breck. Snarling, he surged up and charged again, ignoring his father’s shouts.
Breckinridge darted aside, but Morgan was fast and got a hand on him. Their legs tangled together and they went down in the mud again. Morgan locked his hands around Breck’s throat and started squeezing, obviously intent on choking the bigger man to death. Breck heaved up from the ground and threw Morgan to the side.
Clearly, there was only one way to end this fight.
When Morgan came up off the ground this time, Breckinridge was ready for him. Breck set his feet and swung his right fist in a tight arc that ended at Morgan’s jaw. The blow sounded like someone splitting wood. Morgan’s head jerked around under the force of Breck’s fist, and his eyes went glassy and then rolled up in their sockets. He dropped straight down to the ground and didn’t move again.
Breckinridge became aware that everything was silent now except the murmur of the river and the pounding of his own heart. He looked around and saw the other members of the expedition staring at him in awe. After a moment, Tom Lang expressed what seemed to be their common sentiment when he blurted out, “Good Lord, boy, did you kill him?”
Breckinridge looked down at Morgan and saw his chest rising and falling. Breck said, “He’s alive, just out cold.” He turned to Baxter and went on, “I’m sorry I had to hit him like that, Colonel. I didn’t want to hurt him . . .”
“But he gave you no choice,” Baxter said. “I know, Wallace. I saw him. My son has a . . . problem . . . with his temper.”
“Reckon you can say that again,” Tom Lang muttered. Then he said, “Sorry, Colonel.”
Baxter sighed and shook his head.
“It’s all right, Tom. I know Morgan’s shortcomings. My hope was that this journey might help him grow up a bit. Perhaps it still will.” Baxter turned and gestured curtly to the others. “A couple of you men drag him away from the river and throw some water in his face to wake him up. Make sure that punch didn’t break his jaw. Then we’ll continue preparing to move out.” The colonel gazed off to the northwest. “We still have a lot of miles to go.”
* * *
The only good thing about the fight with Morgan Baxter was that afterward Morgan seemed to focus all his anger and hatred on Breckinridge. He didn’t try to cause any more trouble for Tom Lang. Breck was grateful for that, anyway.
Morgan came up with every dirty job he could think of to hand to Breckinridge, and he made scathing comments about him to anyone who would listen. Breck put up with the harassment stolidly, although it wasn’t easy for him to keep his temper under control. He hoped that eventually Morgan would get that anger and resentment out of his system, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath waiting for that to happen.
They continued up the Missouri River, and as they did, Tom Lang got more worried. One night as they sat next to a campfire, the old scout told Breckinridge, “I could feel eyes on me today, son. They were out there, watchin’ us.”
“Indians, you mean?”
Tom sipped his coffee and nodded solemnly.
“But if they could see us, why couldn’t we see them?” Breckinridge asked.
Tom chuckled and said, “That’s just the way it is out here. You won’t never see a Injun unless he wants you to see him. They can hide where you think there ain’t a bit of cover.”
“What tribe do you think it is?”
“Hard to say. Sioux, Crow, Arikara . . . Could be any of ’em, but it don’t really matter. They all hate us and want to take our hair.”
Breckinridge looked at the fire with some alarm and said, “Maybe we should’ve made a cold camp tonight.”
“That don’t matter, either,” Tom Lang said with a shake of his head. “They’d know right where we are whether we built a fire or not. The only question is whether or not there’s enough of’em that they think they can jump us and have a good chance of killin’ us. Could be it’s just a small band and they figure there’s too many of us, too well armed. They’re savages, but they ain’t stupid. They only attack when the odds are on their side.”
Breckinridge frowned and said, “Seems like the farther we go . . .”
“The more the odds turn against us,” Tom said. “Yep. You’re right about that, boy.”
The scout suggested to Colonel Baxter that they increase the guards. Baxter went along with it, and for once Morgan didn’t try to talk him out of following Tom’s advice. Breckinridge thought maybe the isolation was getting to Morgan. He might have realized that they were a long, long way from civilization, and everything Morgan had counted on to keep him safe in the past—the law, his father’s money and influence—didn’t mean a blasted thing out here.
Even though Tom hadn’t spelled out his suspicions to the whole group, an air of tension gripped the expedition as it set out the next morning. The men looked nervously from side to side as they paddled up the river, as if they expected to see feathered, war-painted figures appear on the banks at any moment.
As they approached an area where the stream ran past some high bluffs on the left, Tom waved the canoes to shore.
“Gotta have a talk with the colonel,” the old scout said to Breckinridge. “I don’t much like the looks of what’s up ahead. That’s a good spot for an ambush.”
“There’s no other way for us to get where we’re goin’, is there?” asked Breckinridge.
“No, there ain’t, not without takin’ the canoes out of the water and portagin’ around. And that’s pretty dangerous, too, not to mention a lot of danged hard work.”
“What do you figure on doin’, then?”
“I thought maybe if there’s a surprise waitin’ for us, we could spring one of our own,” Tom said, but he didn’t go any further into detail.
Once they were ashore, Tom and Colonel Baxter walked off a short distance by themselves and had a long, earnest conversation. Breckinridge wished he knew what they were talking about, but he hadn’t been invited to the discussion.
Neither had Morgan, and that obviously rubbed him the wrong way. Whatever decisions were being made, he thought he had a right to be in on them.
Finally Tom Lang and the colonel came back over to the others, and Tom said to Breckinridge, “Get your rifle. You’re comin’ with me.”
“Where are we goin’?”
“On a little scoutin’ trip. We’re gonna circle around and come up on those bluffs from behind.”
“So we can see if there are any Indians lurkin’ up there,” Breckinridge guessed.
Tom smiled and nodded, saying, “That’s right.”
“We haven’t seen any hostile Indians the whole time we’ve been out here,” Morgan said. “I’m starting to think the threat they pose has been greatly overstated.”
“Well, I’d rather be wrong and keep my hair than be wrong and lose it,” Tom said. “It won’t hurt to have a look.”
Morgan looked at his father and said, “I should go with them.”
Breckinridge bit back a groan. Having Morgan Baxter come along on what might be a dangerous mission was just about the last thing he wanted.
“You should have a representative there, Father,” Morgan went on. “That way when these men report back, you’ll know they’re telling the truth.”
“Now hold on just a minute,” Tom said, frowning now. “Are you sayin’ Breck and me might lie to your pa about what we find?”
“I’m trying to prevent that from happening,” Morgan replied coldly.
“No one’s casting aspersions on your veracity, Tom,” the colonel said. “Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt for Morgan to join you, though. I’d like for him to get some experience at scouting. He might as well learn from the best.”
Scowling, Tom said, “If you’re tryin’ to flatter me, Colonel, it ain’t gonna work. This is no job for a greenhorn.”
“You’re taking Wallace along, aren’t you?” Morgan demanded. “He’s never been this far west, either. He’s as much a greenhorn as I am.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. He was part of that army surveyin’ party I was with last year, down in Osage country.”
“Please, Tom,” Baxter said. “I think this would be a good experience for Morgan.”
Tom sighed and said, “You’re the boss, Colonel.” He fixed Morgan with a hard stare and added, “Get your gear. And you’d better do everything I say out there, or else I’m liable to leave you.”
“That’s right, son,” Baxter said. “Tom’s in charge of this scouting expedition. His word goes.”
“All right,” Morgan said, but his agreement didn’t sound all that sincere to Breckinridge’s ears. He didn’t trust Morgan and hoped that Tom had enough sense not to, as well.
As they gathered their weapons, Tom glanced at the sky, where the sun was past its zenith.
“Give us a couple of hours,” he told Baxter. “If we ain’t back by then, you’ll have to make up your own mind what to do, Colonel. If you decide to run that stretch of river up ahead, take it fast and don’t never slow down, no matter what happens.”
“All right, Tom. Good luck to you.” Baxter gripped Tom Lang’s hand and added quietly, “Look after my boy. I realize he’s headstrong, but he’s all I have left in the world.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Tom agreed. He turned to look at Breckinridge and Morgan and inclined his head to signal that they should follow him.
The three men set out, walking in a straight line away from the river’s southern bank. After a few minutes, Breckinridge asked, “If somebody’s up on those bluffs waitin’ to spring an ambush, won’t they see us leavin’ and maybe figure out what we’re up to?”
“They might,” Tom allowed, “but that’s why I picked the place to come ashore that I did. See that little rise yonder, between us and the bluffs? It’s just high enough I think there’s a chance it’ll hide us.”
Morgan said, “If they’ve been watching us, won’t they realize there are three fewer men in the party than there should be?”
As much as he disliked Morgan, Breckinridge had to admit that was a pretty smart question. Morgan had some ability in a fight, although he hadn’t really learned how to handle himself, and his mind was sharp enough. It was just a shame he was such an arrogant, stiff-necked bastard.
“They might,” Tom said in reply to Morgan’s question. “Seems like a longshot to me that they would’ve studied us that close, though. Now if half the bunch was gone, that they’d notice, for sure. That’s why I figured on such a small scoutin’ party.”
“If we find that there’s an ambush waiting for us, what will we do?”
“Well, we’ll have to get back and tell your pa in time to keep him from goin’ on through and paddlin’ right into trouble.”
“But you said there was no other way around except by, what was it, portaging?”
“Yeah. We take the canoes out of the water and carry ’em. Have to make a big circle and come back to the river farther west. It’ll add days and miles to the trip, but we may not have any choice.”
From a distance this terrain looked relatively flat, but as the three men crossed it Breckinridge discovered just how rugged it actually was. There were a lot of gullies and ridges that had to be crossed as the scouting party turned in a more westerly direction and began approaching the bluffs from behind.
“Careful now,” Tom Lang said quietly. “We don’t want to get ourselves caught. If there is anybody up there, they’re liable to have posted guards.”
“You think it might be Indians?” Morgan breathed.
“Injuns or thievin’ white men, it don’t make much difference. They’d all cut your throat as soon as look at you.”
Most of the country through which the expedition had passed had been grassy plains, but in recent days Breckinridge had noticed more brush and even some trees, although they were a lot smaller than the towering growth he was used to back in Tennessee. He and Tom Lang and Morgan skirted one such clump of trees now, and as they passed it something caused the skin on the back of Breck’s neck to prickle. He knew better than to ignore such an instinctive warning. He whispered, “Tom . . . !” and started to turn.
The warning had come too late. Half a dozen men stepped out of the trees and leveled cocked rifles at the three scouts.
For an instant the urge to fight anyway was almost overpowering inside Breckinridge. He figured that if he flung his rifle to his shoulder and fired, he could get one of the varmints. Then, even wounded, he might be able to drag out his pistols and touch off a couple more shots . . .
Before he could do anything, something hard poked into his back. Tom Lang said, “Just hold on there, son. You try anything and I’ll blow your heart out, and it would purely pain me to have to do that.”
“What the hell!” Morgan blurted.
“Shut up,” Tom snapped. “Drop your rifle, Baxter. I’d just as soon not kill Breck, but I don’t give a damn about you, you nasty little piss-ant.”
“You . . . you’ve betrayed us!”
“Smart as a whip, ain’t you?”
Breckinridge said, “Tom, what are you doin’? Who are these fellas?”
They weren’t Indians, that was for sure. The six men threatening them were white. Bearded and roughly dressed, they were hard-featured men who looked like they wouldn’t hesitate to kill. Breckinridge was certain that was the case.
“These are my partners,” Tom Lang said. “Fella there is the boss of the bunch. Name’s Pete Hargrove.”
One of the men stepped forward with a sneer on his ugly face, which looked like it had been hewn out of wood with a dull ax. He said, “You go ahead and move away from these two, Tom, and we’ll get rid of ’em.”
“You might better think about that some more, Pete,” Tom advised. “You know how well sound carries out here. You shoot these two and the others will be liable to hear it, back yonder at the river.”
“We’ll kill ’em quiet-like, then,” Hargrove said. “Up close with knives.”
“Might not be as easy as you think. I’ve seen this big fella here account for several men in a fight. That’s why I want to talk to him before we do anything else.”
Breckinridge’s head was spinning. He struggled to wrap his mind around Tom Lang’s apparent betrayal. Why was it that nothing in his life ever seemed to go the way he thought it would? Why in blazes did fate or destiny or pure bad luck keep jerking him back and forth this way?
He knew one thing, though, and he expressed it by saying coldly, “I don’t want to talk to you, Tom. I don’t have a damned thing to say to you.”
“You’re wrong, Breck. I’m givin’ you a chance here, boy. You can throw in with us, and we won’t kill you. You’ll be one of us.”
Hargrove frowned and said, “I never told you you could bring somebody else into the bunch.”
“Listen to me. You want Breck on your side. He’s the fightin’est fool you’ll ever see.”
“Not a big enough fool to throw in with a bunch of no-good thieves,” Breckinridge said.
“You can see it’s a waste of time,” Hargrove growled. “Let’s just go ahead and kill ’em.”
“What are you gonna do, Tom?” Breckinridge asked. “Go back to the colonel and tell him there ain’t no ambush, so he and the other fellas will paddle right into it?”
“That’s the plan,” Tom Lang admitted. “And when we’re done, we’ll have us the best trappin’ outfit in the Rockies. Baxter sunk a lot of money into this expedition.”
Morgan said, “So you’d commit mass murder just to steal some traps and supplies?”
Hargrove came closer and said, “That’s the kind of thing somebody who’d never been poor would say. You never had to scramble for a crust of bread to keep from starvin’, did you, you little bastard?”
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t let it turn me into a thief,” Morgan replied. His voice was a little shaky, and Breckinridge could tell that he was mighty scared. Morgan was trying not to show it, though, and Breck had to give him credit for that.
“Last chance, Breck,” Tom Lang told him. “Say that you’ll join us. Otherwise we won’t have no choice but to kill you.”
Breckinridge turned his head to look at the scout and said, “Why, Tom? Just tell me that.”
“Why? ’Cause I’m old, damn it! How many more years I reckon I got in me? How many more years you think I can survive out here in the wilderness? I want to find me a front porch some place where I can sit in a rockin’ chair and whittle and have some sippin’ whiskey. One more year—this year—and then that’s how I want to spend the rest o’ my days. Back yonder in Saint Louis, Pete offered me enough of a cut to make it happen. I feel bad about it, but I got no choice.”
Breckinridge drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. He said, “I feel sorry for you, Tom.”
Then he exploded into action, twisting away from the barrel of Tom Lang’s rifle and sweeping a leg around to knock the old man’s feet out from under him. As he came up again, he tried to raise his rifle, but Pete Hargrove sprang in, striking with the speed of a snake. He jerked a tomahawk from behind his belt and slammed the flat of its head against Breckinridge’s arm. The blow knocked the rifle loose from Breck’s grip.
A few feet away, several of the men swarmed Morgan Baxter. He tried to fire his rifle, but as he fumbled in an effort to cock the weapon, one of the thieves wrenched it away from him. The men knocked him down and started kicking him.
Hargrove reversed direction with the tomahawk and clipped Breckinridge on the jaw with it. Breck’s beard cushioned the blow slightly, but it was enough to set his brain to spinning anyway. He felt his balance going and fought to stay upright, but one of the men slammed a rifle butt into the back of his right knee and made that leg buckle. Another kicked him between the shoulder blades and drove him forward.
This wasn’t a tavern brawl. These men were hardened killers, the most dangerous adversaries he had faced since those Chickasaw renegades back in the Blue Ridge foothills. Breckinridge knew they would stomp and club him to death if they were able to pin him to the ground, so he rolled over desperately and brought a foot up into the groin of one of his attackers. The man screeched in agony and doubled over. When he fell to one side, that gave Breck an opening. He surged up.
But he had barely reached his feet when something hit him in the head with stunning force. Red explosions went off behind his eyes. He fell to his knees and the men closed in around him, kicking and slugging.
Then a harsh, guttural voice he hadn’t heard before ordered, “Stop! Do not kill the big one! Do not kill either of them.”
That command drew angry curses from Hargrove and the other men, which was a little puzzling. Tom Lang had said that Hargrove was the boss of this band of killers and thieves, and yet he was taking orders from somebody else. Reluctantly, Hargrove withdrew a few steps, as did the others.
Breckinridge’s head was spinning and he knew he was about to pass out. He hadn’t given a good account of himself in this fight, which was disappointing. But at least he was still alive, as was Morgan Baxter, judging by what the newcomer had said.
“Why the hell did you stop us?” Hargrove demanded. “We don’t need these two. We ought to just go ahead and kill them.”
A figure stepped up and loomed over Breckinridge. With the sun behind the man, Breck couldn’t make out much about him except a silhouette. Something about it was all wrong. After a moment he realized that was because the man had several feathers braided into his hair, sticking up at different angles from his head.
“I stopped you because I claim this one as mine,” the Indian said. He leaned closer, and the last thing Breckinridge saw before he lost consciousness was a hideous face twisted in a savage smile, like a demon out of hell looking forward to inflicting eternal torture on some hapless sinner.
The last thing he heard was that same devil saying, “Hello, Flamehair.”