“Go on, old man,” Jamie called. “Leave me alone and I’ll let you live.”
Big Paw slammed his paws against the tree and roared, slobber flying. Jamie cut his eyes at movement. Buck had trailed his master and was a few hundred yards off, trembling with fear but nostrils flared wide and ready for a fight. Big Paw whirled around at the horse scent.
“Oh, no, bear,” Jamie yelled. “You don’t kill my horse.” Big Paw looked up at Jamie just as Jamie felt a warm stickiness on his face. He put his hand to his face and was surprised to find blood there. He had cut his face in a dozen places on thorns and low branches during the wild chase. He’d been so busy concentrating on the wild, rushing, life and death foot-race and on staying alive he had not noticed the slight cuts. The blood was dripping from his face down onto his buckskins. So it was the blood scent that was enraging Big Paw.
Buck took several steps toward the bear, and Big Paw roared and whirled around, facing the big stallion. Big Paw lifted his massive arms and Jamie took aim and placed his shot true. The ball pierced the grizzly’s heart. Big Paw screamed and staggered, then fell to the rocky earth.
Jamie waited several minutes, making certain the huge grizzly was indeed dead before climbing down. He leaned his reloaded rifle against a tree just as his pack horse found Buck. Jamie secured both still skittish animals, petting them and calming them. Then he pulled his knife from leather and began the slow job of skinning the bear. It would be a prize rug. He straightened up at the sound of hooves to stand over the bear, his Bowie knife held at what seemed to be a defensive position.
Black Thunder and several of his tribe burst out of the timber and sat their mounts, staring in disbelief at the sight before them. It was a fearsome scene and would be told and retold, thoroughly embellished with each repeated telling, all over the west. Jamie’s face was streaked with blood. Blood had dripped down to darken his buckskin shirt. There was blood on the big mans hands.
Black Thunder was speechless, his mouth gaped open. But his eyes did not lie—at least as he saw it. Man Who Is Not Afraid stood over Big Paw, a knife in his hand. Man Who Is Not Afraid had killed the mighty grizzly with only his knife.
“IIiyee!” Black Thunder screamed, and the others screamed their approval. Man Who Is Not Afraid was indeed the mightiest of all warriors. For in all the annals of Indian history—or white history for that matter—very few men had ever been victorious over a grizzly armed with only a knife. Jamie started to correct the story then paused. Maybe it was best this way.
Black Thunder jumped off his horse and walked to Jamie’s side, putting one arm around Jamie’s shoulders and one foot on the dead Big Paw. “He is my brother!” Black Thunder called. “My brother, Bear Killer. Man Who Is Not Afraid will be known to all Utes as Bear Killer.”
The warriors with him hollered and cried out, shouting out the name over and over.
Jamie decided to let Black Thunder keep his own version of what had happened. He said, “I give the skin to you, my brother. It will keep you warm for many years.”
Black Thunder could not conceal his delight. “There will be many songs sung about this, Bear Killer. Yes. It is good that we are brothers. I could not sleep well knowing such a warrior as you is my enemy. We will have mixing of the blood soon and all will know we are brothers. Shining Bright will make you a fine necklace from the teeth. You will wear?”
“I will wear with pride.”
“We will feast tonight on the meat of Big Paw. You will come?”
“I will come.”
Black Thunder frowned in thought, then added, “Leave yellow-haired tribe at home. Not want to frighten Shining Bright.”
Eight
Jamie received word that the Fremont party would not leave for another eighteen months but that Fremont wanted him to leave as soon as possible to scout out the way. Fremont wanted maps and lots of them.
Jamie smiled at that. He would give Fremont maps, but somebody else would have to draw them, for Jamie would carry them in his head.
The horse he chose from his stock, and they were all superb animals, was a huge stallion that only he could ride. He had traded for the horse from a very disgusted Indian who simply could not tame the animal. It had taken Jamie less than two weeks. The Ute had called him Horse, and Jamie saw no reason to change his name now. Horse was the color of sand, with dangerous eyes and enormous strength. But around Jamie, Horse was gentle as a kitten. But Horse was also fiercely protective of Jamie and both loyal and watchful.
Jamie packed carefully and chose wisely. He took ample powder, shot, caps, and a mold. He would hunt and fish for most of his food, but he had to take flour and beans and sugar. He hadn’t wanted to do it, but he was forced to take a pack horse. The pack horse he chose was tough, strong, and trail-wise. Even without a lead rope Jamie had trained it to follow.
The spring flowers had started to fade and lose their brilliance when Jamie kissed Kate and the kids, shook hands all around, and mounted up. He had no way of knowing he was again about to take a ride into history.
From both mountain men and Indians, Jamie learned where he needed to go and what he needed to avoid. Needed to avoid but probably wouldn’t, for he wanted to see it all. When he reported to Fremont, or Fremont’s man, as the case may be, Jamie’s report would be comprehensive.
Jamie followed the Arkansas, heading straight into the heart of the Rockies. He had been perhaps fifty miles north, west, and south of the valley, so for the first several days out, he was in familiar country. But he soon found himself in country that was unknown . . . and he loved it. It was wild and lonely and beautiful. Jamie deliberately climbed high, as high as he could take the horses. When it became too steep and rocky for them, he dismounted and continued on foot.
Jamie stopped often during his slow ride north, memorizing every trail, every blind canyon, every creek, every river, every spring. As was nearly always the case with the early pathfinders, Jamie would carry those trails and rivers and springs in his brain until death. He could return forty years later, and know exactly where he was.
As he rode and etched the countryside in his mind, always riding with rifle ready, he recalled what Kit Carson had told him about Fremont. Kit had been quite taken with the man. And Carson was not a man to give his friendship lightly. He only had one reservation about Fremont.
Jamie had pressed him on that point. Carson had smiled and said, “Drinks his coffee with his little finger stickin’ way out like this here.”
And that was all he had to say about it.
Jamie had tried drinking his coffee with his little finger sticking out. It was uncomfortable.
Fremont may or may not have held his coffee cup with his pinkie finger sticking out (history doesn’t divulge that) but John Charles Fremont was a very ambitious man. He was born in Georgia, some say Savannah, around 1813. He was a woods colt, something that he fiercely resented. But that resentment only served to fuel his driving ambition to succeed. Fremont decided, at an early age, that he could get ahead by associating himself with successful men, and before he was out of his teens, he did—with a man named Joel Poinsett.
Poinsett was very rich, a world traveler, and a highly sought-after statesman and diplomat. Poinsett had traveled extensively in Mexico and brought back a flower that eventually was named for him—the Poinsettia. He took an immediate liking to young Fremont and soon had him appointed as a government surveyor, working with the army in the southern mountains of the United States.
Poinsett was appointed Secretary of War during the Van Buren administration and since he was an avid explorer, he organized the Army’s Corps of Topographical Engineers. Then he appointed Fremont as a civilian with that group. The Corps’ first expedition was an outing into the largely unexplored country between the Upper Mississippi and Missouri Rivers. This was in 1838, just about the time that Jamie and those who chose to follow him were really getting a foothold in the long valley in Colorado. The team spent nearly two years in the field, and when t
hey returned, Fremont felt he was ready for bigger and better things. Poinsett agreed.
* * *
Jamie was not aware of any of this political wrangling. Had he been aware of it, he more than likely would have refused to take any part in the mission, for Jamie despised politics. He admittedly knew very little about politics, but what he did know, he disliked. Jamie Ian MacCallister was no deal-maker. He was no diplomat. He knew that right was always right and wrong was always wrong. And one did not make deals to skirt or avoid the two. He placed politicians in the same low esteem he felt for lawyers and bankers. The former would lie and the latter would cheat. Period. One might conclude that Jamie was a tad on the narrow-minded side of some issues.
* * *
Jamie spotted several bands of Indians, and he was sure they had spotted him. But he made no contact with them, nor they with him. He never got close enough to determine what tribe they belonged to.
He was camped along the banks of the North Platte, about twenty-five miles south of what would someday be Wyoming, when he saw Horse’s head come up, the big stallion’s ears pricked and his eyes alert. Jamie leaned forward to pour another cup of coffee with his left hand while his right hand closed around the forestock of his rifle and pulled it toward him. Horse snorted and pawed at the earth and Jamie heard the slight brushing of boots against the ground.
“Mighty careful man,” the voice spoke from behind him. “But I got you cold, mister. Now you just turn a-loose of that rifle and keep your hands in plain sight.”
“And if I don’t?” Jamie said.
“Then I reckon I’d just have to blow a hole in you. I ain’t aimin’ to kill you, mister. But I need your hoss and supplies. And I aim to have them. One way or the other.”
Jamie smiled. If this fool thought he could ride Horse, this might turn out to be fun. “Come on in,” he called cordially. “I have coffee and food. Help yourself.”
“That’s smart on your part.” The voice moved into the camp and Jamie got his first look at the man. He was not impressed. The man was dirty and smelled like a goat in rut. When he opened his mouth, he exposed stained and rotted teeth. His eyes looked much like the eyes of a cornered rat. Jamie had no doubt but what he could easily take the man, but decided to play along for a time. He wanted to see the man attempt to ride Horse.
“You have a name?” Jamie asked.
“Biggers,” the man said, picking up a piece of pan bread with extremely dirty fingers and sopping it through the grease left in the frying pan. He stuffed his mouth full and said, “Jack Biggers.” He stared at Jamie for a moment while he chewed. “You a big’un, ain’t you?”
“I’ve been told that a time or two.”
“But I got the rifle, so big don’t mean shit, do it?”
Jamie shrugged at that. “Indians get you?”
“Naw. Trappers. Caught me stealin’ some of their supplies and set upon me fierce. It was uncalled for. They had a-plenty and I had nothin.’ They seen that plain. They could have shared with me.”
Give me something for nothing, Jamie thought. The trappers would probably have willingly shared what they had with Biggers had he asked. But he chose to steal. Jamie felt nothing but contempt for the man. And he wasn’t sure he believed the man’s story.
“You ‘member that name, mister,” Biggers said. “Jack Biggers. I got kin to meet me down to Bent’s Fort. They’s waitin’. I’m a-fixin’ to take your hoss and git back to them. Then we’ll come back here and I’ll settle up with them goddamn trappers, and you, too, if’n you get antsy with me.”
“Take what you want,” Jamie said.
Jack sneered at him. “You a big‘un, all right, but you ain’t got no sand to your bottom. If’n I had the time, I’d give you a whuppin’ just for the fun of it.”
Jamie was amused at that. But he managed to hide his smile. Several times in his life he had killed men with just one single blow from his fist. Jim Bowie had seen him do that in south Texas one day. Besides, Biggers was almighty careless in his movements. Jamie had let several opportunities slide where he could have taken the rifle from the man.
He watched as Biggers stuffed food and other supplies into a sack and then moved toward Horse. When he bent down to pick up the saddle, Horse kicked the snot out of him. Jack Biggers went flying and tumbling and rolling ass over elbows and came to a hard halt on his belly about twenty-five feet from point of impact.
Jamie rose from the ground—he’d been sitting with his back to a log—and walked over to retrieve Biggers’ rifle. Biggers was moaning and writhing on the ground. Jamie felt the man was at least badly bruised in the ass area but had no way of knowing if his injuries were any more than that—and didn’t care.
He put out his small fire and saddled up, after stowing his supplies. He swung up into the saddle. He had unloaded Jack’s rifle and now contemptuously threw the rifle on the ground beside the man.
“Hep me,” Biggers moaned. “I’m hurt fearsome.”
“Help yourself,” Jamie told him. “I would have given you supplies had you but asked for them. But men like you never learn. Hell with you.”
“I’ll kill you someday,” Biggers threatened. “You got a name?”
“MacCallister. Jamie Ian MacCallister.”
Biggers paled under the dirt on his face. “Heared of you. But that don’t make no difference. I’ll git my brothers and kin and we’ll be back.”
“I’ll be around,” Jamie said, then rode off, leaving Jack Biggers shouting wild curses and threats to his back.
Jamie made camp about five miles north of where he’d left Jack Biggers. Two days later, he crossed over into Wyoming. He had put Jack Biggers out of his conscious mind, tucking the man into the far reaches of his brain. But Jamie had certainly not forgotten him. He never forgot a threat. Jack Biggers might have just been running off at the mouth, and he might not have been. It was best to take a threat seriously.
Jamie camped early in the shadow of what would someday be named Bridger Peak, after the legendary Jim Bridger. He was being watched and he knew it, he had known it since early that afternoon. And he was sure it was Indians looking him over. And it certainly was one of the four predominant tribes in this area: the Shoshoni, the Arapaho, the Crow, or the Cheyenne. He was still some south of the usual Blackfoot stomping grounds, but they sallied down this far occasionally. And the Blackfoot Indians were great warriors.
Jamie’s grandpa had told him the Crow were friends of the Americans, with many bands boasting that they had never harmed a white man. But the elder MacCallister had smiled when he said that.
Jamie had not unpacked, just pausing long enough to fry some bacon, make some coffee, and let the Indians think he was camped for the night. He left his small fire burning in a pit, surrounded by a circle of stones, and quietly pulled out, deliberately choosing the rockiest route he could find to better hide his trail. It wouldn’t fool the Indians for long, but it would buy him some time. He hoped. For Jamie had a gut hunch these Indians were hunting scalps.
Jamie found a very rocky trail and took it, not knowing where it might take him. It took him straight into a cul-de-sac.
“Damn!” he whispered, looking at the sheer rock walls that surrounded him. Then he smiled. He knew where he was! Preacher had described this place to him. Preacher had used it to hide from a war party one time. Yes. There were the skinny trees and scrub bushes. If he was right . . .
Jamie carefully slipped into the small stand of trees and found the opening. There was the lightning bolt mark Preacher had scratched out near the narrow entrance. Then Jamie heard the faint sound of hooves striking rocks. He quickly led his horses down the dark and narrow passageway and turned them loose in the two acre clearing, with a small spring and plenty of graze. He quickly stripped the gear from the horses and they immediately began to graze on the lush grass. Jamie ran back up the passageway and carefully brushed out all sign of his ever being in the rocky cul-de-sac. Then he slipped back into the brush, rifle and pis
tols at hand, and waited.
He’d been lucky. These were Blackfeet. But what the hell of were they doing so far south of their usual territory? Then he saw the paintings on their mounts. The dark square meant the war party leader. Beside that square, there was a hand painted. A recent kill in hand to hand combat. There were scalps tied to the pony’s mane and also on the leader’s lance—fresh scalps.
Jamie did not speak the Blackfoot language, so he had no way of knowing what they were saying, only that they were definitely arguing, and some of them were getting hot about it. They seemed pretty sure that Jamie had come this way, and now he had disappeared. That just was not possible.
Jamie had a couple of anxious moments when the war party leader slipped off his horse and inspected the rocky ground. Several times he looked directly at the trees and the brush. Then he walked over and stepped into the small stand of timber. He stood for a moment, then muttered something and walked out to join his party.
But Jamie had seen something in the war chief’s eyes and had read it right: the man wasn’t convinced. He knew Jamie was near. But he was not about to venture deeper into that stand of timber. He did not get to be a war chief by being stupid.
Jamie watched him make a big deal out of commanding his men to leave. They wouldn’t go far. Only back to the mouth of the blind canyon. That was fine with Jamie. He was in no hurry to pull out. He had plenty of food, there was graze for the horses and water for horse and human. If the Blackfeet found the entrance, Jamie could pile bodies up head high, for he had two rifles and six pistols, all fully loaded and ready to bang. He had his bow and arrows and his big Bowie knife. It would be one hell of a fight, that was for sure.
But Jamie didn’t think the Blackfeet would stay long, for they were a long way from home and he knew they were not on the best of terms, at this time, with the Cheyenne and the Arapaho. He would wait them out.
The passageway behind him was probably a hundred yards long and twisting, the stone walls around the hidden little valley hundreds of feet high. Even if the horses whinnied, they would not be heard.
Dreams of Eagles Page 6
