“You’re right. How about Mrs. Altman and family?”
“Damned if they didn’t pull out with them.” The man shook his head. “Somethin’ mighty queer goin’ on with them two families. Mighty queer.”
Jamie told the gathering that Cyrus had beaten his daughter savagely. But he did not tell them about the incest or that the girl was pregnant. To a person, they received the news with shock.
“Caroline?” a woman asked.
“She’s staying with us for a time.”
“We know that Cyrus caught Bob assaulting his daughter,” a woman spoke up. “And Cyrus killed the man for it. But he said that you would be coming after him for that.”
“No,” Jamie said. “I just wanted to tell him that his horse came up lame and I have it in my barn, that’s all.”
“Why did he beat the girl so?” another woman asked.
“I reckon that’s something you’ll have to ask Cyrus,” Jamie said, lifting the reins. “See you folks.”
Back in his own valley, dismounting at the Goldman place, Kate met him. “She lost the baby, Jamie. About an hour ago. But it was for the best. She was further along than I thought. The baby was . . . well, not normal.”
“Burial?”
“Swede and Reverend Haywood took care of it. They buried the poor thing quickly . . . and unmarked.”
Jamie told her about the Hankinses’ pulling out, with Altman’s widow and kids with them.
“That’s mighty queer,” Kate said.
“It’s a closed book, Kate. We’ll never see them again.” I hope, Jamie thought.
“Poor Caroline.”
“She’s better off without them. How is she?”
“She’s all right. I think she’ll probably be able to have more children. If she ever wants more children.”
“Let’s go home.”
* * *
For the next eighteen months the settlement on the western side of the ridge prospered and grew while the newly formed settlement on the eastern slopes faltered and finally died. One by one the families packed up and moved away, with most of them returning to the settled east. Four families, who were making a go of it across the ridge, asked if they could settle in MacCallister’s Valley and were welcomed. There were now almost a hundred people living in the valley.
Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister were in Europe, studying music under the watchful eyes of the masters in their chosen field.
There had been no word from or about Ian. The young man called “desperado” and “gun man” had seemingly dropped out of sight.
“He’s holed up somewhere in the high country,” Jamie told Kate. “Staying low until all this blows over. He’s all right.” Jamie smiled mysteriously.
“You find this amusing?” Kate asked.
“Ian’s probably planted him a garden, cussing all the while. You know how he hated the plow.”
* * *
Outside the peaceful little valley, events were whirling furiously and change was rampant. The United States was preparing to go to war with Mexico. On December 29th, 1845, Texas became the 28th state of the union. In January of 1846, Captain John Fremont reached Monterey, in Mexican California—it is believed he was under secret orders to make that territory ready for acquisition by the United States. In February of 1846, thousands of Mormons left Nauvoo, Illinois, led by Brigham Young, heading west. Austin became the capital of Texas.
The settlers in MacCallister’s Valley had not seen a newspaper or received any sort of news for several months—winter locked the valley up tight. The settlers had no way of knowing that the United States was busy moving army troops about, ready to fight the Mexican Army. General “Rough and Ready” Taylor commanded the American forces and moved his army to the left bank of the Rio Grande River. In early spring of 1846, American troops, under the command of General Worth, built Fort Texas. Just across the river, in Matamoros, six thousand Mexican troops fortified the town.
In early spring 1846, the Mexican commander sent nearly two thousand troops across the Rio Grande and tangled with some seventy American soldiers on a scouting mission. Those American troops who were not killed were captured and taken back across the river into Mexico. Rough and Ready Taylor proclaimed that, “The war may now be considered as commenced.” But President Polk didn’t learn of that until nearly two weeks later.
The governors of Texas and Louisiana sent volunteers to aid General Taylor just about the same time the Mexican Army once more crossed the Rio Grande to attack Fort Texas.
In early May of 1846, the battle of Palo Alto took place, with two thousand American troops soundly defeating six thousand Mexican troops.
On the eleventh of May, President Polk addressed Congress, “Mexico has passed the boundary of the United States, has invaded our territory and shed American blood on American soil.”
On the thirteenth of May, Congress formally declared war on Mexico and authorized millions of dollars toward the war and the immediate recruitment of fifty thousand troops. General Taylor crossed the Rio Grande and occupied the town of Matamoros.
In June, the Army of the West, as it was called, seized San Francisco Bay and with the help of naval gunboats, set up blockades of Mexican ports on the Gulf of Mexico.
Young Ian MacCallister became a scout for John Fremont, who was instrumental in the Big Bear Revolt in California. After taking the town of Sonoma, Fremont was chosen to lead the new republic.
In July, the U.S. Navy landed at Monterey and Commodore John Sloat raised the Stars and Stripes and declared California part of the United States.
* * *
The mountain man, Sparks, scouting for the U.S. Army up in Montana, was asked to take a message to Jamie Ian MacCallister. It was the middle of July before Sparks rode into MacCallister’s Valley with the message from Washington. Fontaine, a man who had become friends with Jamie down in Texas and who was working for an organization that would someday be called the Secret Service, wanted Jamie to scout the best and quickest way to California, through the rough country of the southwest. The government was preparing to send several battalions of troops to California, if needed, and going there by ship would take too long.
Jamie was reluctant to go, but Kate made up his mind for him. “Find out how Ian is and come back to me.”
“You want to come along?” Jamie asked Sparks.
“I wish I could. But I got orders to head on back to Montana. You ever wintered in Montana?”
“No.”
“Don’t.”
In mid-July of 1846, Jamie saddled up and rode out, heading south for New Mexico. Grandpa MacCallister had been a good talker and Jamie a good listener. The old Silver Wolf had prowled all over the southwest, and he had told Jamie the best way to cross to California. “Just watch them Injuns down yonder,” the old man had cautioned. “Some of them desert Injuns is pure hell, boy. The Navaho is right nice folks, but them Apaches is mighty mean. And that’s bein’ kind.”
Horse was an ideal desert animal, the color of sand and as tough an animal as Jamie had ever ridden. Horse loved the trail and was ready to travel. When Jamie rode into the raw and rugged town of Taos, feelings among the Mexicans were running high against the Anglos and the feeling was mutual. Jamie didn’t tarry long. He supplied up and pulled out, unaware that Colonel Kearny already knew the way to California and had left New Mexico about two weeks ahead of Jamie, heading for the new territory of California. Fontaine had tricked Jamie. Fontaine thought that with two MacCallisters fighting for California independence the war could be won a lot quicker.
A few days out of Taos, Jamie came up on the camp of Kit Carson. The two men had a rousing welcome and then settled down for coffee and food.
“What are you doing way to hell an’ gone down here, Jamie?” Kit asked.
Jamie explained.
Kit was puzzled. “Hell, Jamie, I just come from California. I run into Colonel Kearny not a week ago. He knows the way out there. They’s a truce on between us and the Mexicans. Ther
e ain’t no fightin’ out there.”
Carson, unaware that conditions in California had taken a terrible turn for the worse, the truce being violated a dozen times a day on both sides, had convinced Kearny to send more than half of his troops back to New Mexico.
“’Sides, I hear that the Mormon Battalion is blazin’ a trail from Santa Fe to San Diego. I can’t figure out what Fontaine has on his mind.”
The Mormon Battalion, recruited from the men who were wintering at Council Bluffs under the command of Captain George Cooke, did indeed blaze a trail. But history has treated their epic journey very lightly. On several occasions, the men and horses went without water for days, and at least twice the wagons had to be completely dismantled to get through narrow passes along the way. Other than that, not much else is known about their backbreaking trek.
Jamie crossed the land much faster than the slow-moving Mormon Battalion and had no trouble with Indians. He reached Los Angeles a short time after the main Army garrison had pulled out, leaving only about fifty soldiers behind. The city itself was left under the rule of Archibald Gillespie, a man who held the Californios in contempt and did nothing to hide his feelings. He was little more than a tyrant.
Jamie rode right into a growing rebellion.
Ian, having no desire to head south with Stockton to fight in Mexico, had left the volunteers and was having dinner one evening in a cantina when he looked up and met his father’s eyes. The men quietly embraced and sat down to wine and food and conversation.
Jamie explained to his son how he’d been tricked into coming out to California. “But,” he added with a smile, “it was only a matter of time. Your ma would have made me come out to see you anyway.”
“Things are bad here, Pa. There’s a Mexican fellow named Serbulo Varela who’s really stirring up trouble. This whole city could blow up at any moment. The Californios really hate Gillespie.”
“What do you want to do, son?”
Ian smiled. “I think we ought to stick around and see the action.”
“Uh-huh. And just maybe take a hand in it, too, right?”
“Since when have you ever backed away from a fight, Pa?”
Jamie smiled and studied his oldest son. He was a boy no longer. He was almost the mirror image of Jamie at that age. Indeed, the two could pass for brothers. Ian was the same height as his pa, with the same broad shoulders and massive arms and chest. He was now clean-shaven and wore his hair shoulder-length, like his pa.
“I’ll back away from no fight that concerns me, Ian. Does this fight concern me?”
“You fought at the Alamo and have to ask that, Pa?”
“I reckon not, son. All right. You got any followers?”
“Nary a one. I kind of like to lone-wolf it. I reckon I picked that up from you.”
“Well, let’s scout around some and see which way the wind is going to blow. Then we’ll plan.”
Jamie prowled the town and liked none of what he saw or heard. Gillespie had so angered the Californios that one could almost smell trouble in the air. Before he had pulled out, Stockton had put a curfew into effect—rigidly enforced by Gillespie—even going so far as to forbid family reunions in private homes and arresting any Mexicans who walked abreast on public streets. The Californios had taken just about all that they were going to take. And to make matters worse, the Californios had no respect whatsoever for Gillespie’s troops, who were, for the most part, rude and undisciplined.
Jamie looked over the small garrison of troops and shook his head. They were some of the most unsoldierly troops he had ever seen, sloppy in manner and dress and attitude.
Jamie really wanted to take no part in the upcoming fight, but he was an American, and duty sang him her song—not nearly as strong as she had in Texas, but he could nevertheless make out the melody.
Jamie sought out an audience with Gillespie. But the man rudely refused to see him. Jamie told the clearly startled guard what Gillespie could do with his refusal and how far he could stick it.
It was the afternoon of September 22, 1846.
“I tried, Ian,” Jamie told his son back at the hotel. “But the man refused to see me.”
“That’s like him. What now, Pa?”
“We get a good supper and ride out for the valley at first light.”
“I reckon. Maybe it’s time I came back home. I have been missin’ the place.”
“Not nearabouts as much as your ma’s been missin’ you, I can tell you for sure.”
Both Jamie and Ian noticed that the streets were devoid of horses, buggies, and foot traffic early that evening. They put it off merely as the Californios obeying the curfew and thought no more of it.
Jamie and Ian were jarred out of bed early the following morning by the sound of gunfire and shouting. They jumped into their clothes and grabbed their guns.
The excited night clerk stopped them in a dimly lit lobby. “Don’t go outside, gentlemen,” he urged. “You’ll be killed. The revolution is underway.”
Seven
Jamie and Ian ignored the warning and stepped out onto the street. A Mexican galloped up and, seeing the men were Anglos, snapped a pistol shot at them. The round missed them and broke a window in the hotel. Ian cleared the saddle with a ball and the man bounced in the street.
“My God, now we’ll all be killed!” the panicked night clerk shouted from the floor behind his desk.
“They’re attacking the garrison!” the faint shout came to the men. “To arms, to arms!”
“Let’s get our horses, Pa.”
“No,” Jamie stopped his son. “We can be more effective on foot. This is going to be close-in work, son. Go back upstairs and get all our pistols. Make sure they’re fully charged. We’ll fight silently from the shadows.”
It was three o’clock in the morning when the Californios revolted against the harsh rule of Archibald Gillespie.
Father and son ran through the alleys of the town until they reached the garrison. The scene amazed Jamie, for the American troops were more than holding their own and slowly beating the attackers back.
“There’s Varela,” Ian pointed out and lifted his pistol. But the leader of the uprising had ducked into the shadows and Ian held his fire.
“There’s only a handful of them,” Jamie said. “The troops are holding. Let’s get back to the hotel and pack up. This might not prove to be anything to worry about.”
But Jamie was wrong. After the brief battle at his garrison, Gillespie immediately ordered all Anglos to arms and closed up the town tight; no one out and no one in. The Californios began digging up weapons they had buried when the Anglos took power and the revolution was really on.
Commander Gillespie sent a messenger to the hotel to tell Jamie that he would see him now.
“Tell him to go to hell,” Jamie told the soldier.
“I can’t tell him that!” the soldier protested.
“Then tell him you couldn’t find me.”
By that night, some five hundred armed Californios had gathered at an old Mexican military base about a mile from the American garrison. The Californios were under the command of a professional soldier, Captain Jose Flores, a calm and deliberate man who harbored a deep hatred toward the United States. His second in command, Lieutenant Gomez, despised Americans even more than Flores; he had been wounded at the Alamo and had lost several relatives there, not to mention a lot of dignity and a promotion. He went straight to Captain Flores when he learned that Jamie MacCallister was in town.
“Find him,” Flores ordered. “We’ll hang him publicly and that will break the spirits of the damned Americans.”
But a Californio who knew that Jamie was a fair man who had no hard feelings against people of Spanish descent, learned of the order and slipped up the back steps of the hotel, tapping softly on Jamie’s door.
“You must flee,” he told Jamie. “The orders are to find you and hang you.”
“Gracias,” Jamie told the man. “But that’s been tried before
and I’m still walking around and breathing.”
The Mexican shrugged his shoulders and slipped away.
Jamie charged all six of his heavy caliber pistols and both rifles and blew out the lamp. Ian was also armed with numerous pistols and two rifles. Together, father and son waited in the darkness for the attackers to come. The streets had turned even more dangerous, for by now, hundreds of armed and angry Californios were roaming the town, looking for Anglos.
Gomez, leading a dozen men, rushed into the lobby of the small hotel and charged up the stairs with several of his men in front of him.
Jamie and Ian were waiting on the second floor landing. Six of Gomez’s soldiers were either killed or badly wounded during the first few seconds, turning the landing slick with blood and creating panic among the living.
Gomez was no coward, but neither was he a fool. He ordered his men back and the small hotel set on fire. Jamie and Ian had rushed back to their room and grabbed up their saddlebags before the gunsmoke had cleared and were gone out the back way before the first torch could be lit. They squatted in the alley beside the hotel and watched as the first torch was fired into life.
Jamie lifted a pistol and put a ball into the man’s guts. He screamed, doubled over, and dropped the torch, the flames setting another man’s britches on fire. Had it not been so tragic, it would have been comical.
Lieutenant Gomez took what men he had left and got the hell out of there.
Jamie, unpredictable as always, reentered the hotel through the back door and set about making coffee and cooking an early breakfast.
The revolution was less than twenty-four hours old, and so far, the Californios had suffered far greater losses than the Anglos, mostly due to the shooting skills of Jamie and Ian MacCallister.
But all that was about to change.
* * *
Dreams of Eagles Page 18
