Dreams of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Jamie slowly straightened up and stared at his oldest son for several very long heartbeats. Ian hushed up quickly. He knew full well just how far to push his father. And he had pushed him right to the line.

  “Tell me what happened when the outlaws attacked the settlement,” Jamie said.

  Ian hesitated and Jamie knew then that his suspicions were correct: those back yonder in the settlement had not been totally truthful with him about the outlaw attack.

  “All of it, boy!”

  “They handled Ma pretty rough, Pa. She made me swear never to tell you. And I swore, too. Now I done broke my word.”

  “Handled your mother how?”

  The boy’s face was crimson. “Felt her all over. Run their hands up her dress. Ellen Kathleen told me.”

  “And how did she know all this?”

  “ ’Cause them men was doing the same to her. You see, Pa, they caught Ma and sister down by the creek. Swede, he heard them yellin’ something fierce and grabbed up his rifle and give out a holler. By the time he got there, they had purt near stripped Ma and sister down to the buff. One man, the leader, was tryin’ to ... well, he was . . .”

  “I know what he was trying to do. Did he?”

  “Oh, no, sir. The Swede said that Ma kicked him right in the parts, she did. And Ma can kick. I know. She’s kicked me in the butt a time or two.”

  “You deserved it, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, sir!”

  “Go on.”

  “While the leader of the gang was rollin’ around on the ground pukin’, Swede he shot one of the gang and just about that time Juan run up and killed the second one. Sam, he got a ball in another one and then they took off, yellin’ about how they was goin’ to come back and finish what they started that day. Now you want to tell me why Ma is so anxious to keep me hid under the bed for the rest of my life?”

  “Keep your scalpin’ knife in its sheath, boy. Your ma don’t think that is civilized behavior for a white man. When you get older and get out on your own, then do what you think is right. But not until then. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Pa?”

  “What?”

  “How old was you when you took your first scalp?”

  “Older than you. Now hush up and read signs.”

  Jamie and Ian followed the hoof marks, looking more like brothers than father and son. Ian was beginning to fill out but still had a long way to go to match his father’s legendary strength.

  The outlaws were brazen in their contempt for those who lived in the settlement in the long, lovely valley. They had made camp not ten miles from the small community and were being very obvious about it. As so many men did in the wilderness in that time, they fairly bristled with guns—many of them carrying as many as six pistols. They had rifles stacked all over the camp, within easy reach. And Jamie knew it was done for a reason. Most Indians of that period did not have guns, still relying on arrow, lance, and war axe. But they knew what guns could do and the sight of so many guns would be a deterrent to most Indians, and an open invitation to a few.

  “Those the men who attacked our settlement, Ian?” Jamie asked his son.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive, Pa. Right there is the man who tried to have his way with Ma. The man with the stovepipe hat. Stupid lookin’ thing, ain’t it?”

  “Isn’t it.”

  “Whatever. Do we attack?”

  “When you are absolutely certain in your mind that this is the right bunch. Death is final, boy. And it don’t help a damn bit to say you’re sorry while standing over a grave.”

  Jamie Ian carefully eyeballed the motley bunch from their position on the ridge. Slowly, he nodded his head. “I’m sure, Pa. There ain’t, isn’t, a doubt in my mind.”

  “Stay right here,” Jamie told his son. “And I mean stay right here, boy. If you move I’ll wallop you proper. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You better. I don’t want to tote you home hurt and have to face your ma.”

  “What if you get in trouble down yonder, Pa?”

  “I won’t. You stay put.”

  Jamie took his rifle and his bow and quiver of arrows. His two pistols were stuck down in hardened leather holsters. He worked his way slowly down the ridge, circling the fairly well chosen camp of the outlaws. He was ninety-nine percent certain this was the right bunch, but he wanted to get in close to listen to them talk. Then he would be sure.

  It was said among the Indians that Jamie Ian MacCallister could slip up on a snake . . . and the talk was not that far from the truth. Jamie crept in close and listened. The talk was sometimes crude and most of the time filthy. Jamie had been known to curse from time to time, but he had never used the words this pack of rabid skunks were using.

  Then the man with the stovepipe hat mentioned Kate. In extremely vulgar terms. Jamie felt his blood run cold and his eyes narrowed in anger.

  “What a set of tits that yeller-haired gal had on her, boys!” he shouted, marching around the camp. “I tell you for a fact, now, for a little-bitty thang, I shore had my hands full of them titties.” He pulled at his crotch. “I got to go back and bed her down, boys.” Then he proceeded to tell all that he would do to Kate, and Kate to him.

  Jamie lifted his rifle and shot the vulgar brigand. The ball struck the butt of one of the man’s guns stuck down into his waistband and it discharged, blowing a hole in the crotch of his dirty britches and setting them on fire.

  “Oh, good God, boys!” the man screamed. “I been ruint!” He started running for the creek, and Jamie lifted a pistol and knocked a leg out from under the man, sending him sprawling and howling to the rocky ground. He lay on the ground, screaming as his crotch burned.

  Jamie lifted his second pistol and shot a brigand in the belly, just as his son opened up from the ridge, his first shot taking a man right between the eyes and dropping him dead on the ground.

  The men in the camp had frozen for a moment and then reacted, diving for their guns and spreading out in a half circle. Jamie backed into the brush and quickly reloaded. Then, on his belly, he began making his way toward the north, where he had seen a man jump into the brush. And it was a man he had seen before, over at Bent’s Fort. Jamie had recognized him by the long scar on the side of his face.

  Stovepipe hat was squalling and cursing and shouting orders, most of which had to do with his burning private parts and some of which dealt with the question of whether he had shot off his own manhood.

  “I want that bassard alive!” stovepipe yelled. “I want to gouge out his eyes and put hot coals in his mouth. You hear me? I want him alive.”

  Nice people, Jamie thought.

  One of the gang made the mistake of exposing the lower part of a leg. Up on the ridge, Ian took careful aim and put a ball through it, splintering the shin. His yelling joined that of stovepipe, who had now made the creek and was sitting in the cold rushing waters, soothing his burned private parts.

  “Hey!” the shout came from behind a jumble of boulders on the far side of the camp. “Who you be, mister?”

  Jamie said nothing. Only his eyes moved.

  “How come it is you attacked us?” the man hollered. “We ain’t done you no harm.”

  Jamie remained silent.

  “I don’t thank they’s but two of ‘em,” another voice was added. “Luddy, you start circlin’. Frank, you go the other way.”

  “Which way, is Luddy a-goin’?” Frank asked.

  “Idiot!” the second voice said. “Move to your left.”

  “Winslow?” another voice said. “Be you all right?”

  “I’m in the creek,” stovepipe called.

  Winslow, Jamie thought. I will remember that name.

  “Is your privates all right, Winslow?”

  “Burned some. But they’s still hooked on to me. Now y‘all listen to me. They’s one up yonder on the ridge above us. And another a-creepin’ around in the brush. I t
hank they’s from the settlement. They just got the jump on us, that’s all. We got to settle down and thank this out. Everybody hold your positions.”

  “Do that mean me and Luddy don’t start circlin’?” Frank called.

  “Yes, it do,” Winslow called. “Just hold still.”

  I am dealing with some near idiots, Jamie thought. Coming from the ridge he could hear his oldest son’s laughter at Frank’s question and Jamie had to smile.

  “They’s laughin’ at us,” Luddy said. “I don’t like that, Winslow. I don’t like bein’ made light of.”

  “Y‘all stop that there laughin’!” Frank shouted. “You hear me. I won’t stand for it.”

  But Ian’s funny bone had been tickled by the stupid remarks from the outlaws and he only started laughing all the harder and louder. Even Jamie, very close to one of the brigands, had to struggle to contain his own laughter.

  “They’s just tryin’ to goad us into doin’ somethin’ stupid!” Winslow yelled. “Don’t fall for it. We got ’em outnumbered, boys. Just hang on. I’ll thank of somethin’.”

  “Think?” Young Ian yelled from the ridge. “None of you are smart enough to think!”

  “That’s a damn kid!” Frank hollered. “You little whelp son of a bitch!” he yelled and jumped to his feet.

  Ian’s ball took him in the center of his chest and knocked him dead to the ground.

  The boy is devious and dangerous, Jamie thought, with no small amount of pride in the thought.

  “Frank!” Winslow yelled. “Frank? Answer me, ol’ son.”

  “Frank’s dead,” another voice was added. “That may be a kid up yonder on the ridge, but if’n that’s so, he’s a damn fine shot, he is.”

  “Oh, hell, Winslow!” yet another voice shouted. “I know who them attackers is. I ‘member now. I know who settled in that valley. I heared talk ’bout it. That Jamie MacCallister! ”

  “Shit!” the man with the busted shin said. “If’n that’s so, we bes’ start prayin’ to the Lord for help.”

  “Shut up!” Winslow screamed. “MacCallister is just a man. And if’n that’s his son up yonder on the ridge, the boy cain’t be no more than thirteen or fourteen at the mos’.”

  “You know how old Jamie Ian MacCallister was when he kilt his first man?” Luddy called.

  “How old?” Busted-shin asked.

  “ ’Bout ten year old way I heared tell it.”

  “Shut up, goddamnit, shut up!” Winslow screamed. “I don’t wanna hear no more of this clap-trap.”

  “MacCallister!” Luddy shouted. “Can we talk?”

  Jamie said nothing, he was close enough to a brigand to touch him. He had been moving no more than two or three inches at a time, and the smelly man was completely unaware that he was only moments from death. Jamie figured the man had not bathed in weeks, maybe months.

  “Talk about what?” Ian called from the ridge, knowing that his father was stalking and would not break silence.

  “Where is your pa, boy?” Luddy asked.

  “Over to Bent’s Fort.”

  “Bent’s Fort! Wal, who the hell is with you?”

  “My younger brother. He’s eleven.”

  Jamie smiled. He and his oldest son were so much alike it was scary.

  “He’s lyin’!” Winslow screamed the words. “There ain’t no eleven-yar-old got the nerve or the moves to slip up on experienced men like us’n. Don’t listen to him.”

  “Jim!” Ian called. “Don’t take no scalps, now, you hear. Ma don’t hold with us scalpin’. You know what she said. She swore she’d tan our hides if we brung back any more scalps. Just kill a couple more of these sorry wretches and we’ll go on back home and wait for Pa.”

  “I’m out of here,” Busted Shin said. “I’m gone, boys. You’ll not see hide nor hair of me no more. And that there’s a solid promise, boys. You let me go?”

  “Dave, goddamn your eyes!” Winslow squalled. “Don’t you turn tail and run off, you hear me?”

  “Hell with you, Winslow,” Dave called. “If’n I’d a knowed that was Jamie MacCallister’s woman I’d a not come within a hundred miles of her. I’m gone. I’m leavin’, MacCallisters. You gonna let me go?”

  “Go on,” Ian called from the ridge. “But if I was you, I’d be more afraid of my friends shootin’ me in the back.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Dave admitted. “How about it, boys?”

  “Go on,” another man shouted from his position. “I’ll personal shoot the first one who blows a hole in you, Dave.”

  “That is some small comfort, Harold,” Dave called after a few seconds pause.

  “Best I can do,” Harold said.

  “Go on, Dave,” the shout came from the creek. “I never liked you no way. Never did trust you, neither. I knowed all along you was a coward. Don’t let me see your ugly face no more. You hear me, Dave?”

  “I hear you, Winslow. The hell with you, too. I’ll see you boys,” Dave hollered, then he limped to the horses, saddled up, and was gone.

  The man who was hiding about two feet from Jamie said, “I ain’t had me a boy since I was in jail back east, Winslow. I like to hear ’em holler. What do you say?”

  “My equipment ain’t up to it at the moment, Ned,” Winslow yelled. “But you and the boys go right on. You capture them kids, y’all can corn-hole to your heart’s delight.”

  “I’m gettin’ all excited just thinkin’ about it,” Ned yelled.

  Jamie put an end to the brigand’s excitement by silently reaching out and cutting Ned’s throat with his big Bowie knife.

  Fourteen

  Now Jamie had two loaded rifles and six loaded pistols, counting the rifle and four pistols taken from Ned, who would no longer have any use for them.

  One of the no-counts suddenly jumped up and made a run for better cover. He should have stayed where he was. Ian and Jamie fired as one, both balls striking the outlaw. He was flung forward and was dead before he hit the ground.

  “They might be kids, but they can damn shore shoot,” Harold remarked. “What do you think about it, Ned?”

  “I’m no kid,” Jamie spoke in low tones. “And Ned can’t hear you. I just cut his throat.”

  “Damn,” a man said. “It’s Jamie MacCallister.”

  “Back out!” Winslow shouted. “Stay to cover and back out slow and easy. Over to the crick.”

  There were at least five outlaws left able to ride, Jamie figured. Maybe one more than that. Either Winslow had hooked up with more brigands, or those at the settlement had been wrong in their count. No matter. They still had to be dealt with.

  But not at this time. The outlaws made their horses and were gone in a frantic pounding of hooves and wild cussing and shouted threats.

  “Let them go!” Jamie shouted to his son.

  “But, Pa—”

  “Let them go!” Jamie repeated. “Come on down here. And bring the horses.”

  While Ian was working his way down the ridge, Jamie collected the weapons of the dead, gathered up the three pack horses they had left behind, and then began dragging the bodies to a ravine and unceremoniously dumping them into the natural pit. “Stand watch,” Jamie told his son.

  “You going to say words over them, Pa?” Ian asked.

  “I’ll say something.”

  “Something” was very brief and to the point, for Jamie had absolutely no use for outlaws and even less for rapists and child molesters. He caved a wall of the ravine over the dead and told the Lord to do what He felt was best with them. And if He didn’t know what to do, Jamie had a few suggestions. Amen.

  “Do we go after the others, Pa?”

  Jamie hesitated for a moment. “We probably should, but that bunch will be laying up in ambush for us. Don’t run after a scared man, son. A scared man will hurt you.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Go home.”

  * * *

  By lamplight, Jamie tallied up the names of those men who had sworn revenge
against him and his family since moving west. The list was getting longer. Jack Biggers and kin, Barney and kin, Buford Sanders, Pete Thompson, Winslow and gang. With a sigh, Jamie put down his pen and closed the ink well.

  Cold winds blew against the cabin, but the logs were close-fitted and chinked well. The large cabin was snug against the winter’s fury. In the months since Jamie and Ian had confronted Winslow, the brigand had not been seen. Black Thunder had told Jamie his men had reported the outlaws had headed east.

  In a few weeks, it would start to warm, and Jamie would have to leave to join Fremont and Carson. The winter had been unusually mild, and hunting had been good; not that a lot of hunting was necessary now. Cows and bulls and a few pigs that had broken loose from wagons on the way west had made their way into the valley and the settlers had a fairly respectable herd going. During the early fall, two weary families, whose wagons had broken down and who had been abandoned by an unscrupulous wagon master had been found by Black Thunder’s men and after getting over their fright (which Black Thunder’s men had found highly amusing), were led to the long and lush valley and welcomed by the settlers there. Sam and Swede returned to the broken wagons—not that many miles to the north—repaired them, and drove them back. As luck would have it, one of the men was a minister and the other a skilled blacksmith and farmer. Both men had families and all were welcomed into the settlement—William and Lydia Haywood, Eb and Mary French, and a total of eight children. The settlement was growing.

  But that summer of ’41 was the summer that Roscoe and Anne, the twins, now fully grown and with absolutely no negroid features, left the valley. And as was their way, they stole supplies and horses and pulled out in the dead of night.

  Wells, who had married Moses and Liza’s daughter Sally, was beating on the door to the cabin before dawn. “Get up, Jamie. Get up. They’re gone.”

  Jamie, clad only in a long nightshirt, rifle in hand, unbarred the door and flung it open. “What’s wrong, Wells? Who’s gone?”

  “Roscoe and Anne. They’ve stolen supplies and horses and slipped away.”

  “Give me a minute to dress.”

  Kate had gotten up with Jamie and was putting on water for coffee, stoking up the coals in the fireplace. During the summer months, she cooked outside, under the dog-trot, on and in a stone and metal stove that Jamie had made for her (many, many years later much the same apparatus would come into vogue as a grill and smoker and people would marvel at how good the food tasted). During the fall and winter months, the cooking was done inside to help heat the cabin.