Jim watched as Fontaine’s scout, Bonham, a good, steady men, Jim thought, hailed Jamie and then walked into the street to speak with him.
“They’s a passel of them in town, Jamie,” the scout told him. “And they’re spread all over, but most of them is down to that Mex joint. They’s two of them over yonder acrost the street. One says his name is Andy Saxon. Come on,” Bonham said. “There is someone I want you to meet.”
Jim Bowie was not a man easily impressed. But Jamie Ian MacCallister impressed the hell out of him. The young man — Jim guessed him to be in his early twenties — was huge, with wrists that Bowie guessed would be an easy ten or twelve inches around. The lad does not know his own strength, Bowie guessed again, and knew he was right.
Bowie smiled at Jamie’s easy handshake. A lot of men liked to show off their strength by grinding the other fellow’s knuckles together. That was done to Bowie once. Jim told the oaf that if he ever did it again, he’d spread him wide open and let him look at his own guts.
But not Jamie. Jamie was no show-off. He was a man who knew his own capabilities and limits and that was something that most men never realized. Jim Bowie liked the tall, long-haired young man immediately. Jim started to offer his help in dealing with the Saxon gang, then decided against it. He wanted to see Jamie in action.
Smith and Fontaine were indisposed for a time, Jim told Jamie.
“Well, how about a drink then?” Jamie said. Then he smiled and added, “Across the street.”
Bowie returned the smile. “I have been known to tipple from time to time.”
“Well, let’s go tipple then,” Jamie said, handing the reins to one of Smith’s manservants. The Indian smiled secretly at Jamie.
Bonhan chuckled as the three of them walked across the road. This was going to be fun!
Bowie had noticed — not much escaped the adventurer’s eyes — that Jamie had booted his rifle and carried only his two pistols behind his sash. But the knife Jamie carried in a beaded sheath looked familiar and he asked him about it.
“Made by Noah Smithwick,” Jamie said. “I believe you have made his acquaintance.”
Bowie smiled and then laughed. For it was Noah who had made the knife he now carried in a sheath at his side. “I’ve met the gentleman a time or two,” Bowie responded, as the men stepped to the door of the shady saloon.
The saloon stank of stale sweat, unwashed bodies, and clothing worn too long. The noses of Jamie, Bonham, and Bowie wrinkled against the unnecessary foulness as they stepped into the semigloom of the grog shop and walked to the plank bar.
The saloon was full for this time of day, and as Bonham had whispered to Jamie upon his arrival, he knew none of the men.
“What a foul lot,” Bowie said, in a voice that was deliberately loud and intended to reach the ears of everyone present. It did.
Some of the men stirred in anger, but none among them had any desire whatsoever to match blades with Jim Bowie. For if they challenged him, it would be Bowie’s choice of weapons, and they all knew what that would be.
“Whiskey,” Jamie said. “And wash out the cups,” he added. “Carefully.”
Bowie and Bonham laughed at that.
The barkeep gave Jamie a hot look, but was wise enough to add nothing vocally. He dunked three cups in a bucket of water and set them and a jug on the planks. Then the man behind the bar moved to the far end, just as far as he could go, putting himself well out of the line of fire he felt was inevitable.
Bowie splashed whiskey in his cup and downed it. “Awful stuff,” he said, then smiled. “Don’t know why anyone would want to drink it.” Then he picked up the jug and refilled his cup.
Why anyone would want to tangle with a person of Jamie’s size and near legend reputation was a mystery to both Bonham and Bowie. Even quietly standing at the rough bar, slowly sipping his cup of whiskey, even a fool could see that MacCallister had the power in those massive arms to snap a grown man’s back like a twig. But the Good Lord, in all His wisdom, for whatever reason, placed a large number of fools on this earth. And on this day, in the spring of 1834, the dark, smelly saloon held no small number of them.
One of them stood up and walked to the bar, stopping directly behind Jamie. “MacCallister! You’re wanted back in the States on a number of charges.”
“All those warrants have long been dismissed,” Jamie said, without turning around. “Do you be a wise man, now, and return to your seat. I wish no trouble.”
“Jamie Ian MacCallister,” the man persisted in a loud voice. “Surrender or die, you back-shootin’, murderin’ son of a bitch!”
Jamie turned around and hit the man. His big fist struck the man just above the left ear and it sounded like a melon hit with the flat side of a shovel. The man’s boots flew out from under him and he was sent crashing to the floor, about ten feet from where he had stood. He did not move.
Jamie’s swing had not seemed rushed, but Bowie knew he had just witnessed one of the most powerful blows he had ever seen. Blood was leaking from the prostrate man’s nose and mouth and left ear. Bowie had seen many a dead man in his wild and oftentimes violent life, and he knew he was looking at another.
An unshaven and loutish-looking man knelt down beside the man on the dirty floor. “You’ve killed him!” he said.
Jamie shrugged his heavy shoulders in complete indifference. “He threatened me,” was all he had to say.
“Do you know who this is?” the kneeling man asked.
“No, and I don’t care,” Jamie replied, taking another small sip of whiskey.
“This here’s Andy Saxon.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?”
The man rose to his boots and slowly made his way to the door. “You’re a dead man, Jamie MacCallister,” he said. “Andy’s kin will track you to hell for this.”
Jamie turned to face the man. “That’s been tried by better men than that scum on the floor. They’re dead and I’m still here.”
The man turned and ran from the saloon. He jumped into the saddle of a horse tied at the hitchrail and galloped off.
Bowie tossed some coins on the planks. “The service was lousy, the whiskey raw, and the clientele surly. But the show was excellent. Let’s go, boys. We have a meeting to attend.”
“What about that there feller on the floor?” the counterman cried.
“The way I see it,” Bowie said, “you have two options. You can leave him there until he petrifies, and then prop him in a corner as a conversation piece. Or you can bury him. My suggestion is the latter. In this climate he’s going to get very rank, very quickly.”
Bowie, Bonham, and Jamie walked out.
Twenty-five
Bowie studied Jamie as they walked. He could detect no change in the man’s demeanor. Jamie had just stretched a man out dead on the floor, either with a broken neck or a broken skull, and he had not changed expression yet. Fontaine had told Bowie that Jamie was very bright, and Bowie had realized almost instantly that he certainly was not dealing with some sort of dullard. Then he had to suppress a chuckle. When had he ever been terribly overcome with grief after a killing?
Now he knew why he had taken such an immediate cotton to the lad — they were both as much alike as two peas in a pod.
At the meeting, Fontaine and Smith were uncommonly blunt. “War is looming on the horizon, Jamie. I would guess no more than a year away. We need to know exactly where you stand.”
“I stand for Texas independence,” Jamie said without hesitation. “I thought I had made that clear.”
Fontaine nodded his head, as did Smith. “This is something we’re asking of all our people, Jamie. You have not been singled out for questioning.”
“You have your answer,” Bowie said shortly. “Now, what about Santa Anna?”
“Santa Anna is no friend of ours,” Fontaine said. “We were all wrong about him.”
They certainly were. By now it was clear that Santa Anna was a tyrant. He was rapidly becoming a dictator, wit
h the Mexican congress snugly in his pocket. Santa Anna had made it abundantly clear that under no circumstances was Texas to be free of Mexico’s control.
But Santa Anna had made a few other mistakes along the way. One was allowing land to be more easily acquired, and two was modification of the laws allowing new settlers to come in, and come in they did, by the thousands.
Austin had smuggled a letter out of Mexico, the contents of which, had they been seen by Santa Anna, would have put Austin up in front of a firing squad. Austin had some pretty strong things to say about Santa Anna, and called for war.
“Our army?” Jamie questioned.
Smith smiled. “Loose and highly disorganized. It’s far too soon to call openly for volunteers. But they will be there when the time comes.”
“And I am to do what?” Jamie asked.
“Wait,” Bowie told him. “That’s all any of us can do.”
After Jamie had excused himself, saying he had some business to attend to, Fontaine looked at Bowie. “What do you think?”
“He’s solid as an oak.”
“Tell us what happened across the street,” Smith urged.
“He killed a man with one blow from his fist,” Bowie said simply. “Dispatching him without a change of expression.”
“Do you think he’s a killer without conscience?” Fontaine asked.
Bowie smiled. “No more than I am.”
* * *
Jamie rode toward the encampment of the Saxon gang with every intention of ending this years-long pursuit once and for all. But when he reached the camp, it was deserted. The coals were still hot and scraps of food and bits of ragged and discarded clothing were scattered about, but the Saxons and their followers were gone.
Jamie picked up their trail and found they had gone south for a few miles, then cut east toward the Sabine River. He followed the obvious trail for a few miles, then gave it up when it became clear the gang was quitting the hunt. For what reasons, Jamie did not have a clue.
“Good,” he muttered, and turned his horse’s head north, toward Kate and home.
Everyone was both surprised and pleased to see him return so soon. Kate had feared that he might be gone for weeks, or even months. And, secretly, she feared for her husband’s life, for she knew him better than anyone, and knew the chances he took. Hannah had explained the warrior’s way to her. And even though Jamie had spent only a few years with the Shawnees, the lessons he had learned there were burned deep within him, and they would remain there all his life.
So for nearly a year, the political struggling and rumors of war were forgotten by those in the Big Thicket as they concentrated on their own struggling to stay alive, work their fields, and raise their families. Jamie did not know why the Saxon Brothers had given up their hunt for him, but he felt sure that one day he would meet them and it would have to be settled.
In the world outside the Big Thicket, events were rushing toward war. Santa Anna had sent his brother-in-law, General Martin Perfecto do Cos, to Saltillo, with orders to get rid of the Federalist governor and his staff, who were openly opposed to Santa Anna’s dictatorial ways. War between the Texans and the forces of Santa Anna moved closer.
Sam Houston continued to tell his followers to stay calm. War was coming, but not just yet.
Over in San Felipe, a flamboyant young attorney, William Barret Travis had put together a small force of some twenty-five men. Hardly an army, but it was the beginning of one. Some say it was Travis and his little force, a few months later, who really fired the first shot of the revolution — but Texas was huge, and there were shots being fired all over the place, so no one is really sure.
Fontaine sent Bonham to fetch Jamie. Travis wanted to meet him. Jamie agreed, but could not understand why the special interest in him. There were hundreds of men who knew Texas better, so why him?
Bonham shrugged his shoulders. A few days later, at the rear of Smith’s store, Fontaine cleared it up. “Because you represent what Texas is all about, Jamie. It doesn’t make any difference whether you were born here, or not. At this point in time, most Texans have come in here from somewhere else. But you’re free, and you’re willing to die for that freedom. You’re a little bit wild, and you don’t give a tinker’s damn whether others approve of that, or not. You’re true to yourself and to your family. That’s Texas. You stand up for what you believe in, and if the law, or lack of it, can’t handle it, you will and to hell with those who don’t have the backbone to fight for what they believe in. That’s Texas, Jamie.” The government man smiled and called, “All right, Mr. Travis, please come in.”
Jamie Ian MacCallister and William Barret Travis shook hands and sized each other up. Jamie had heard that Jim Bowie and Travis did not really like one another, and Jamie could see why.
As they drank coffee and talked, Jamie could see that the two men were opposites. Bowie was wild and unruly and oftentimes quite unpredictable, while Travis was outwardly cold and calculating. But Travis was also hotheaded and did not like his orders questioned, and he was the sort who felt that his way was the only way. Regardless of that, Jamie and Travis, in only a few short hours that day, grew to like and respect each other. And Jamie could sense that Travis, like Bowie, was fearless. When everybody involved finally made their declaration and committed, it was going to be a matter of wills as to who would actually lead the Texas Army of Independence, Travis or Bowie.
Travis left Jamie with these words: “Stand ready for the call, Jamie MacCallister.”
“Blowhard,” Bowie muttered.
Jamie was back home in time to help with the spring planting.
* * *
On a warm and not unpleasant Saturday evening, when all were gathered at Jamie and Kate’s for an evening of conversation and food and some hard cider for the men (the men didn’t know it, but the ladies had a jug hid out behind the woodpile for themselves), Jamie broke the news to them all.
“I might get the call to go and fight at any time. So I’ve arranged for help to come over. Juan has brothers just recently moved into this area, and they’re good people and need to work. I ...” He shook his head and smiled. “We don’t even have an army yet. But Bowie, Travis, Smith, and Fontaine want me to leave the land and become a scout for them. I’m torn, I tell you.”
“Do you want to go, Jamie?” Kate asked.
“Yes. I do.”
“Then it’s settled. You’ll go.”
“Texas obviously needs you, Jamie,” Sam said. “I believe it’s your duty.”
“Jamie,” Swede said, leaning closer. “We all live within shouting distance of each other. We’ve quite a little settlement here and we can put together a fighting force in a matter of seconds.”
That was true. Jamie had insisted upon all the women mastering rifle and pistol.
Jamie nodded his head. “All right. But I’ll be gone for months, surely.”
Kate looked at him, her blue eyes twinkling. “But won’t it be fun when you do return?”
* * *
Jamie reached San Felipe in time to speak briefly with a very excited Travis. “They’ve done it, lad!” Travis said. “General Cos has reopened the garrison and the customs house at Anahuac and is sending troops in to reinforce those stationed there. We grabbed a Mexican courier and took these dispatches from him.” He waved several papers under Jamie’s nose. “But wait! There is more. Much more. In here,” he thumped the papers, “is a signed statement from a ranking Mexican general, clearly stating that when the conquest of Zacatecas is complete, Santa Anna himself will lead the Mexican Army to us and crush us!”
Actually, Travis’s Spanish was not that good. Nowhere in the dispatches did it mention the word “crush,” which is aplastar. The word castigar was used, which meant punish or chastise.
“We ride for the garrison?” Jamie asked.
“We ride, lad!”
“How many in your army?”
“Twenty-five brave Texans and one cannon!” Travis said proudly.
“That’s what you are to find out, Jamie. Ride like the wind and report back to me immediately.”
“Yes, sir, ah...?”
“Colonel, Jamie. In the Texas Army of Independence.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel Travis.”
When Jim Bowie heard of that he, too, became a colonel and started putting together his own command. It was sort of an odd way to fight a war.
“We’ll meet you on your way back!” Travis shouted.
Jamie lifted a hand and was gone.
What Jamie found in the garrison at the tiny settlement of Anahuac was one officer and about fifty enlisted men. He learned this by sitting in a cantina and watching the post.
That the Mexican officer in charge was hated by most of the Mexican locals was summed up when a man engaged Jamie in conversation and called the Mexican officer a rotten son of a bitch.
But the man was watching Jamie closely, too closely. And Jamie sensed he was an informer and merely smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “I never get involved in local politics,” he told the man. “I’m from Louisiana over here visiting friends.” He jerked a thumb. “Up north.”
The man smiled and Jamie could see him relax. “You are wise, senor. If you are hungry, they serve excellent food here. I know. My sister is the cook!”
Jamie ate the hot spicy food and drank about a gallon of water to cool the flames. Then he began the long ride back east. About halfway there, he met Travis and his command.
“About fifty men, Colonel,” Jamie reported. “I only saw one officer. But that officer has spies all over the settlement. One approached me.”
“You obviously convinced him you were not involved in any skullduggery.”
“I believe so.”
“Good. Ride with me at the head of the column. We’re on the march.”
On June the 29th, 1835, Colonel William Barret Travis and his small army, rode up to within shelling distance of the garrison in Anahuac and sent Jamie, under a white flag of truce, to relay a message.
“And that message is?” the officer in charge said with a sneer.
Eyes of Eagles Page 22
