Dreams of Eagles (24 page)

“I got tired of workin' the fields and of him beatin' on me when I didn't work. So I cornered him in the barn one day and run him through and through. That sure was one surprised man.”

“I can imagine,” Rolly said dryly. “But very briefly surprised.”

“Naw. He lived for days afterward, so I heard. I hope he suffered. I hated that bastard.”

Rolly stared at the man for a moment. “Did anybody ever tell you that you were a real prince of a fellow?”

Vic's face brightened. “No. Say, Rolly, thanks!”

When Rolly Hammond and Vic Johnson rolled out of their blankets the next morning, their horses were gone, including the pack horse. They still had their food and their weapons and blankets. But they were afoot.

Rolly thought they were somewhere in Oregon, but he wasn't really sure of that. He didn't know that he'd been running in a near perfect circle, first west, then north, then east, and then south. For days the sun had not shone, and the men had gotten all turned around in the silent wilderness. They were less than three days' ride from the settlement in MacCallister's Valley.

“The son of a bitch stole our horses!” Vic said.

“I don't think so,” Rolly said. “I think Injuns took them while we were sleeping. I heard tell that Crow Injuns was the best horse thieves in the world.”

Jamie had heard the Crow come close to his camp. He spoke to them in their own language without rising from his blankets. The Crow braves chuckled in the darkness. “We did not come to take your horses, Bear Killer. I only came here to see if I could count coup. I should have known better.” He laughed softly. “Go back to sleep. We shall have our fun with those who camp below you.”

“Now what?” Vic said, looking warily all around him.

“We got our guns and a lot of firepower with them, Vic. We pack up and walk out.” He looked around at the mountains. “Place looks familiar,” he muttered.

“Say what, Rolly?”

“Nothing. Look. The damn sun finally came up. Now I know for sure which way to go.”

“I hate this place. Goddamn mountains look the same to me,” Vic said.

“You'll get used to them after a few hundred years,” the voice came from behind the men.

They whirled around.

Jamie stood there, his hands at his sides.

“So you got the rest of my boys, hey, MacCallister?” Rolly asked, his voice calm.

“Yep. Buried them in an old privy pit.”

“That ain't decent!” Vic said.

“Who are you to speak of decency?” Jamie challenged. “You ride with scum like Rolly Hammond.”

Rolly cursed Jamie and his hand flashed for his pistol. He didn't make it. He saw Jamie's .44 belch smoke and fire and the mercenary sat down hard on his butt, a huge numbness in his belly. He looked down at his shirt. It was all covered with blood. “Laurin said he had it all planned out. Maurice Evans saw to the last detail. It should have worked. It should have . . .”

Vic stared down at the man, dead on the cold ground. He slowly lifted his eyes, ready to face the ball with his name on it. But Jamie was gone.

“MacCallister? MacCallister!” he shouted. “Where are you? Look, finish it. Don't leave me here. I'll never make it out, man. I'm lost. Damn it, MacCallister, this ain't right. MacCallister! MacCallister! Goddamn you, MacCallister! Don't leave me here!”

* * *

Jamie again sat his horse on his favorite ridge overlooking the valley named for him. The damage done by the raiders had been repaired; no trace of the burning remained. But there were new crosses and stones marking new graves in the settlement's growing cemetery. Those were things that only time would erase.

Jamie started Thunder down the trail, and someone started ringing the community bell. The rutted streets soon filled with people. As he drew nearer, Jamie could see Kate with all the kids gathered around her. Andrew and Rosanna had come home.

Ian rode out to greet him. “Mighty fine lookin' pistols you got strapped around you, Pa,” he said after shaking hands with his father.

“I got a couple for you in my saddlebags. Everything all right here?”

“It is now. Ma's been missin' you something fierce.”

Jamie looked at his son and saw the twinkle in the man's eyes. And he is a man, Jamie thought. And I am growing old. He shook that away. “Don't you be speaking ugly thoughts about me or your ma, boy.”

“Me? I was just gonna remind you of what you told me some years back, right back yonder on that very same ridge you just rode acrost.”

“Across, boy.”

“Right.”

“What?”

“Nights sure get lonely, don't they, Pa?”

Jamie laughed and reached over and knocked his son's hat off, then it was a race to the settlement.

Jamie jumped down from Thunder and swept Kate up in his massive arms and whirled around with her, kissing her soundly as they whirled. Liza and Alfred and their kids looked on with undisguised awe in their eyes at the big, buckskin-clad man, guns and knives belted about him. He was whirling Kate around and around as if she weighed no more than a bouquet of meadow flowers.

Jamie finally lowered Kate to the ground, hugged all his kids, and Kate led him over to meet his new son-in-law and daughter-in-law. Alfred braced himself for one of those bone-crunching handshakes that so many borderline bullies like to use. He got his first real lesson about Jamie MacCallister. The man's handshake was gentle. Alfred could feel the rock-hardness of the huge hand, but it was a gentleman's grip.

Jamie had been careful to bathe and brush off and air his buckskins before riding into the valley, and when he bent his head to gently kiss Liza on the cheek, she could smell only the odor of strong soap and scrubbed leather. Both Alfred and Liza were much taken by the big man, and instantly felt close to him.

Later, when the residents of the community had returned to their homes, the immediate family sat on the long front porch of the cabin enjoying cakes and coffee. Then the talk turned serious.

“Is it over?” Kate asked her husband.

“The hunt for the raiders? Yes. But I still have the lawyer and the rich man to face.”

“How many of the raiders did you get, Pa?” Ian asked. He sat on the edge of the porch inspecting the Colts his father had given him.

“Enough,” Jamie said, with a finality to his one-word reply that closed the subject. Later, if she asked about it, and he was sure she would, he would tell Kate all about the man-hunt. But it was not the sort of thing one discussed in front of people like Alfred and Liza, who were not accustomed to the violent ways of the American frontier.

But Jamie had underestimated Alfred and Liza. Liza said, “When there is no written law or uniformed authorities to stand up for the people, then the people have to enforce their own laws.”

“Quite,” Alfred said. “You and your friends have taken a wilderness and carved out a settled community, with a proper school and homes and places of business and a house of worship. This is a pocket of civilization surrounded by savages. It must be defended at all costs.”

The talk turned to lighter subjects, and Jamie asked, “Andrew, your mother said that you and your sister were about to start an American tour. Where would you start?”

Jamie had heard of the gold strike in California and how San Francisco was booming, growing by hundreds of people a day, people who were starved for some vestige of culture and willing to pay enormous sums of money for entertainment.

“Why . . . I don't know. We have an agent, of course. But we've had no communication from him since leaving New York City.”

Kate cut her blues to her husband. She knew he had something on his mind, and with Jamie it would more than likely be wild. Her son and daughter, in addition to their immediate family, had brought west many of their traveling entourage: musicians and stage hands and dancers and the like. They had been put up in other homes in the settlement and were kept busy with telling of all the places they'd been and all the wonderful sights they'd seen.

“Well,” Jamie said, “why don't you ask all the members of your troupe if they'd like a little adventure, something they could tell their grandkids and friends about? Something they would never forget.”

“What do you have in mind, Papa?” Rosanna asked.

“Brace yourselves,” Kate said.

“Oh, a little trip,” Jamie replied. “I took a look at those wagons you came across the great plains in—fine workmanship. And your stock is first rate. I could get some ol' boys to ride along with us for protection and we could have a grand old time. I figure we could make San Francisco in no time at all.” He looked at Kate. “You want to see the Pacific Ocean, Kate?”

And suddenly Jamie was covered with females, all laughing and hugging his neck and crawling around on his lap. The chair he was sitting in broke under the added weight and dumped them all on the porch floor.

* * *

Jamie sent out Utes to find those he wanted to accompany them to the west coast, and they all agreed to go. Alfred and Liza and their entourage stood in silent shock when the dwarf Audie and his huge sidekick Lobo rode in, followed that afternoon by Preacher and Sparks.

“My dear,” Audie said, his head barely coming up to Liza's breasts. “Might you have in your repertoire something by Mozart? Perchance his Allegro maestoso for violin?”

“Ah ... oui,” she replied, flustered at the sight of this savage-looking little man with guns and knives hanging all about him inquiring about Mozart, and momentarily slipped into her native tongue.

“Magnifique!” Audie replied in perfect French, and the two of them walked off, chattering in Liza's native tongue.

“Incredible,” Alfred said, when he finally found his voice.

“Ain't my partner a kick in the ass?” Lobo asked the stunned Englishman.

“Ah ... yes,” Alfred said, looking up at the huge bear of a man. “Quite.”

“He was a professor back east. Havert, or some goddamn place like that.”

“Harvard?” Alfred asked.

“That's what I said, ain't it?”

“Ah ... certainly.”

Sparks rescued the Englishman before Lobo completely boggled his mind.

“We got to make it 'fore the snow flies, Jamie,” Preacher said. “It's gonna be close.”

“We'll make it. I know a shortcut. Grandpa told me about it and I rode it once. Grandpa took wagons through to the coast long before anybody else even thought about it.”

“Yeah, but them was tough settlers, not lily-handed musicianers.”

“Piece of cake, Preacher. I've got some drivers coming in from the fort. They'll be here in a few days. Good men. I just want these people to see what wilderness is really like.”

“I 'spect they'll manage to do that, all right,” Preacher said drily.

Kate thoroughly shocked Liza and Alfred and most of the troupe when she appeared one morning wearing buckskin britches and shirt and moccasins with high top leggings. She shook out a rope and dabbed a loop over a horse's neck, her favorite mare. She saddled the mare and hopped into the saddle, riding astride. Liza felt somewhat faint at the sight and Alfred and the troupe looked on in disbelief.

“My God!” a troupe member from London said. “The woman is wearing a
gun!”

“That's my mother,” Rosanna said, then ran into the cabin and emerged a few minutes later wearing men's britches and one of her brother's shirts. She hopped bareback on a mare and went riding off into the valley with her mother, holding onto the mane.

“Great stars and garters!” Alfred bellowed when he finally found his voice.

Andrew was doubled over with tears in his eyes, laughing at the expression on Alfred's face.

“You're in the country, now,” Caroline MacCallister said. “We don't hold with all the stuffy standards that apply east of the Mississippi. Out here, they're just too much fuss and bother.”

“Indeed,” Alfred said.

Andrew looked around for his wife, but she had disappeared into the cabin. His mouth dropped open in shock when Liza appeared on the porch, wearing men's pants and one of his shirts. Jamie had already saddled up a horse for her and, laughing, scooped her up in his arms and deposited her in the saddle, astride.

She had told Jamie that she was a good rider, and watching her now he had no doubts.

Ian walked to his side and stood silent for a moment. Jamie asked. “You going with us, son?”

“No. Caroline is expectin'. I don't want to take any chances with the baby.”

“Good thinking. I'll feel better with you here.”

“Pa?”

“Yes?”

“Twins and triplets run on her side of the family, too.”

Jamie grinned and clasped his son's shoulder. “The more the merrier, boy. Between you and me, the MacCallister name will never die.”

You shall judge a man by his foes
as well as by his friends.

—
Joseph Conrad

There were ten sturdy wagons, pulled by mules, big Missouri Reds. The interiors of the living quarter wagons were lavishly appointed, but then, Jamie had reminded himself, these people were used to the finer things, not roughing it.

Jamie would scout ahead most of the time, Audie and Lobo on one side of the wagons, Sparks and Preacher on the other. All of them were armed with the new Colt revolvers, and each man carried on him or near to hand at least six fully loaded pistols. In each wagon there were shotguns and rifles, and rifle and shotgun boots had been added to each driver's box. The men Jamie had recruited from the fort were all good, steady men who wished to go west to find gold. They were willing to drive the wagons in exchange for hearty food, safety, companionship, the constant sight of beautiful women, and the occasional entertainment by professionals.

The entire community had turned out early that morning to see the wagons off. Alfred Wadsworth wrote in his diary, which would become a bestseller in England: “The greatest adventure of my life. A journey through the American wilderness, fraught with danger, each mile filled with wild red savages, ferocious beasts, and other man-eating creatures that science has not yet named.”

Really, it wasn't quite that bad. When Sparks and the others saw what Jamie was doing, they were amused: he was taking the wagon train over the Oregon Trail.

“You taking them all the way north?” Lobo asked.

“No. But I won't use the Hastings Cutoff. We'll go to Fort Hall, follow the Snake, and then cut south and take the California Trail.”

“They wanted to see some rough country,” Preacher said. “By God, they'll see it.”

The first few hundred miles was very rough, for there simply was no road. There were trails that the Indians had used for centuries, but nothing that resembled a road. Andrew and Rosanna had grown up in this country, and they knew what to expect, but the others were, for a few days, shocked into silence by the enormity of it all. The daring of their trip finally sank home.

Alfred had at first cast a very dubious eye at the western saddle provided him, having sat nothing but English saddles all his life. But the man soon found that the western saddle was much more comfortable and practical for long journeys. As for the women who chose not to ride in the wagons or walk, as they were forced to do many times, they wore men's britches and rode astride.

The dancers in the troupe soon proved their mettle, for both sexes were tough and strong; when wagons became bogged down crossing creeks or rivers, they were the first at the fore and seemed to enjoy it all.

The women in the company soon cast aside their bonnets and cut the sleeves off of their dresses and let the sun tan their skin and arms, and to hell with the dictates of the times.

“One thing for sure,” Sparks said. “They gonna be a healthy bunch when we reach the blue waters.”

At the end of the first week, those in the troupe who had been finicky or picky eaters were wolfing down huge portions of venison or buffalo steaks, cowboy stew, baked grouse, beans and potatoes, fried cakes, and dried apple pie, washing it all down with cup after cup of strong black coffee. Everyone was sleeping better than ever before.

At least once a week, when the actors and singers were not too tired, they put on a performance after supper, much to the delight of the hired drivers.

Jamie rode back to the wagons one mid-morning and called, “Sweetwater River just ahead. We'll take a long nooning there and everybody can have a long bath.”

They had seen Indians along the way, but most had been curious rather than unfriendly, although Jamie had spotted a few bands that carried trouble in their eyes. For those Indians, Jamie, Lobo, Sparks, Preacher, and Audie put on a little show using their Colt revolvers. When the Indians saw how fast and how long the men could shoot, they decided it would be best to make friends with those in the wagon train. The white man's medicine was just too strong; they had never seen guns like those they named Many-Shoots.

Although by now, hundreds of wagons had rolled over the Oregon Trail, the Indians were still fascinated by the women's long blonde hair.

One chief was particularly taken with Kate and wanted to trade for her. Jamie patiently and with a straight face explained that Kate had a temper that would match that of a grizzly bear, refused to cook, would not make clothes, would not chew venison to make it tender for her man, and would only share his robes once a month. And no matter how often or how hard Jamie beat her, she would not change.

The stunned chief pondered all that for a moment, then said, “Have suggestion.”

“What is it?”

“You keep,” he said and rode off.

“What was that all about?” Kate asked, riding up.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” Jamie said, trying his best to maintain a straight face.

* * *

When the wagons reached the Hudson's Bay trading post on the Snake, the delighted trappers, mountain men and local army troops collected a small fortune for the performers to put on a show. And what a show it turned out to be. Healthier now than they had ever been, the actors acted, the singers sang, the musicians played, and the dancers danced until late in the evening, taking encore after encore. It was a show the likes of which would never again be seen at the old post.

And it was there that the old mountain man MacDuff joined the wagons west.

“There be trouble up ahead for ye,” Duffy, as he chose to be called, told Jamie. “Somebody who wears a stupid lookin' black stovepipe hat. “You know him?”

“Winslow,” Jamie said. “He and his bunch attacked the settlement some years back. I had just about forgotten all about him.”

“He ain't forgot about you,” Duffy said. “He's got hisself a pretty fair-sized gang and they's been playin' hell all up and down the wagon trail 'tween here and Sacramento. They're gonna hit the wagons, boy.” He smiled, exposing a goodly amount of strong teeth for a man his age. “You got airy objections if I tag along with you?”

“Be glad to have you.”

Preacher walked up. “Hello, you old coot,” he greeted MacDuff.

“Preacher, you big bag of wind,” Duffy said. “I ain't seen you in a while. I figured you'd tooken up farmin' and gotten hitched by now.”

The two mountain men walked off, trading heated insults and huge lies.

Jamie walked off to find Kate.

“Kate, spread the word among the members that a large gang of outlaws is going to hit us somewhere ahead. Stay close to the wagons and keep your rifle loose in the boot.”

“Anybody I know?” Kate asked calmly.

“You heard me talk about Winslow, the leader of the gang who hit us years back?”

She nodded.

“That's the one—Duffy just warned me.”

“I like that old man.”

“So did Grandpa.”

“That says a lot.”

“Tells me he's a man with no back-up in him.”

After leaving Fort Hall, the wagons followed the Snake River until reaching the California Trail, then cut south and west. This was the route first blazed by the mountain man Joe Walker back in 1833. San Francisco then was called Yerba Buena. The California trail was in many ways just as arduous as the Oregon Trail, winding north of the Great Salt Lake and then along the brackish Humboldt River, across the alkali Nevada Desert, and then across the Sierra Nevada mountains.

“Winslow will hit us before we reach the wastes,” Preacher said to Jamie, riding up to the point.

“He'll do it soon,” Jamie predicted. “And probably at night.”

“Good water and graze up ahead,” Preacher said. “You thinkin' tonight might be the time?”

“Yes.”

“I'll pass the word.”

Jamie put the wagons in a circle with the stock in the center that afternoon, halting the wagons several hours earlier than he usually did. He was not worried about Winslow firing at the wagons, for the outlaw wanted the wagons intact, for resale.

“He sells the women,” Duffy said. “Takes them to 'Frisco and sells them to ships' captains for transport to some Godless country where they're sold into slavery as whoors. If the men are good and strong, he sells them, too, into terrible cruel bondage before the mast.”

“I thought all that had stopped,” Jamie said.

“Put that out of your mind. It's still goin' on. And these fillies with us will bring a pretty penny, believe you me. And don't think you'll be safe when we get to 'Frisco, for you won't. That town's a dangerous wicked place.” He grinned. “Of course, I would know naught about the wicked part of it.”

Jamie laughed and began walking the circle of wagons. Alfred Wadsworth had loaded up a double-barreled goose gun with nails and shot and was now checking the loads in his pistols.

“We'll be ready to fight,” he assured Jamie. “An actor and musician I may be, but it's tradition in my family to do one's time with the Lancers. The sounds of gunfire will not be new to me, Jamie MacCallister.”

Jamie smiled and walked on.

The other men in the troupe, while not experienced fighters, were familiar with weapons, most of them having grown up in small towns around the land. They sat eating their supper with their guns close to hand.

Everything was as ready as Jamie could make it. All they could do now was wait.

It wasn't a long wait.

“They're out there,” Sparks said to Jamie about an hour after full dark had laid night's blanket over the land.

“I know. They're good but not that good. I heard them slipping up about fifteen minutes ago. I told everyone to act like they're going to bed, then quietly get into position. Nobody fires until my word.”

“Got you.”

Jamie moved around the circle, talking in low tones. He was letting the fires burn down to coals, and for half an hour he had forbid anyone to look into the dying flames. But outside the circled wagons, Winslow's men were forced to look directly at the wagons and therefore into the flames of cookfires. Their night vision would be somewhat impaired.

The members of the wagon train had slipped under their wagons and were as still as the night, heavily loaded shotguns, rifles, and pistols at the ready. Winslow was going to be in for quite a surprise.

Jamie had listened carefully as the outlaws slipped up in the dark. He guessed their strength at probably thirty. But they would be a desperate thirty, cut-throats and brigands all—men whose limits of cruelty would know no boundaries, men who would do anything.

Jamie waited. Winslow was giving the men and women ample time to fall into a sound sleep. It's easier to cut a sleeping person's throat.

Far off in the distance, a coyote sang his lonely song. Song Dogs, the Indians called them. Then a moment later, another coyote joined in, then another, and the night was suddenly not so lonely or bleak.

Jamie's eyes caught a very slight movement outside the circled wagons. He was instantly alert. He waited for another movement, but none came. Had he imagined it? He didn't think so. He had survived too many attacks such as this one to be imagining things in the dark.

No, there it was again. The outlaws were creeping closer. They obviously had this down to a fine practiced art. Preacher had told him of finding several wagon trains that had been set upon by white brigands, and Jamie himself had personally witnessed one a few years back.

“Sorry bastards,” Jamie muttered under his breath.

The gang of cut-throats came in a rush out of the night, silent death and depravity running toward the wagons.

“Fire!” Jamie yelled, lifting his twin Walker Colts and letting them bang.

* * *

Several of the women had been holding torches, ready to light, and at the first shot, they lit the torches and flung them outside the circled wagons, catching the outlaws in the flickering flames.

The fire power from inside the wagons was devastating and at close range, killing and maiming those in the first wave. Double-barreled shotguns did the most damage, for at close range a heavily loaded shotgun can very nearly cut a man in two.

Winslow lost half his men within fifteen seconds. The wounded lay on the rocky ground, moaning and writhing in pain, calling out for help, for mercy, and, most disgusting to those in the circle, for God to help them.

“Can you believe it?” a dancer named Nancy said, breaking the awful silence after the deadly fusillade. “They want God to help them.”

“God damn them!” one of the hired drivers said. “I hope they all burn in the Hellfires.”

“I'll be back, MacCallister,” a shout came out of the night. Jamie recognized Winslow. “You've not seen the last of me.”

Jamie did not reply. He had reloaded his pistols and now squatted by a wagon wheel in the darkness.

“It's a long way yet to California,” Winslow offered up his final words.

Then the night grew silent after the faint sounds of hooves faded into the distance.

“What about the wounded?” Liza asked, appearing by Jamie's side.

In the faint light from the stars, Liza read the silent answer in her father-in-law's eyes and said no more about it. She turned and walked away.

So many pistol and rifle balls and heavy charges from shotguns had been pumped into the charging men, Jamie felt there was little use in seeing to the wounded. The cries of the hideously mangled men had already tapered off to a few low moans and whispered prayers. The wagons carried medical supplies, including laudanum, but Jamie had no intention of sharing their precious supplies with the crap and crud who rode with the likes of Stovepipe Winslow.