Dreams of Eagles (3 page)

“I wouldn't,” Jamie said shortly.

“That ain't all. They's talk of invadin' Mexico. You gonna be asked to take part in that, too.”

“I'm not interested,” Jamie replied, just as shortly as was his reply to the first notion. “Why me, Grandpa? I've only been about fifty or so miles west of where we are. I don't know the country west of here. Why not you or Preacher or Kit Carson or some other mountain man?”

The old man looked at his grandson. How to tell the boy that Jamie Ian MacCallister was a living legend and he was not yet thirty years old. Silver Wolf said, “How come you taught your kids not to be afraid of wolves, boy?”

“Because there is no reason to be afraid of a wolf. Stop changing the subject, Grandpa.”

“Wolves are dangerous,” the old man said with a smile.

“That's bunk and balderdash and you know it. I have never heard nor seen of any healthy, full grown wolf attacking a human being without some provocation.”

The old man chuckled.

“You give a wolf just half a chance, and they'll run from a person.”

“Hee, hee, hee!” Jamie's grandfather giggled, covering his mouth with one huge gnarled hand. “You do get a mite riled up about wolves, don't you, lad? How about a panther?”

“I've never had any trouble with them. But they're not very smart. Not near as smart as wolves. I faced a big cat down in the Thicket one time.”

“You got lucky, boy. You faced a swamp cat down. The panthers you find out here, pumas, painters, catamounts, we call ‘em, is a whole different story. Some of them get huge, boy. And they're dangerous because they are so notional. I faced one down one day on a ledge. Then about a year later damned if the same big cat didn't haul off and jump me for no damn reason that I can think of. I know it was the same one 'cause of the long scar on its snout. That was a fight, for sure it was. We had us a time, we did, bitin' and scratchin' and snarlin' and me with an empty rifle.”

“What happened, Grandpa?” Kate asked, eyes shining.

“Why, Kate,” the old man said, his face solemn. “That cat killed me!”

As he had done before, the elder MacCallister was gone when the settlers awakened the next morning. Only Jamie had been up early enough to see the old man leave.

“How old is he, Jamie?” Sam asked, standing out in the coolness of early morning, a mug of coffee in his hand.

“I don't know. In his seventies, at least. Perhaps older. But Indians from Arkansas westward know him, or know of him.” Jamie looked at his own mug of coffee. “Sam? We're going to have to head down to Bent's Fort for supplies. And we've got to do it before the snow flies.”

“When do you want to leave?”

“Today.”

That came as absolutely no surprise to Sam, for when Jamie made up his mind to do something, he did it. Right then. “All right, Jamie. The women have prepared a list of articles they need. When do we leave?”

Jamie smiled. “We?”

“That's right. I'm driving one of the wagons.”

“We're not taking the wagons. It would slow us down too much. We'll use the mules to pack them back.”

“When do we leave?”

“In about an hour.”

After living with Jamie much of her childhood and all of her adult life, nothing surprised Kate. She had known for some time that Jamie was going to the fort for supplies, for she had learned to read him like a good book. “I want you to order some books for our school,” she told him. “We can pick them up next spring. Sarah says to get any of McGuffey's primers and readers.”

“Who's McGuffey?”

“I have no idea. But Sarah says his textbooks are very innovative.”

“Whatever the hell that means,” Jamie muttered.

* * *

If the mules had wings and could fly, the journey would be about one hundred and seventy five miles. But in the wilderness, one seldom could travel in a straight line for very long. Jamie knew they'd be very lucky to be back in a month. His grandpa had warned him that the Indians were angry about the number of whites moving into their territory and to take caution when traveling.

Bent's Fort was at the crossroads for a number of tribes: Cheyenne, Arapaho, Comanche, Kiowa, Utes, and others. Jamie did not particularly worry about the Arapaho and the Cheyenne and the Utes, for he had traded with them and stayed in their lodges many times. The Comanche and Kiowa were quite another story. They were extremely warlike and disliked the whites with something that was close to wild unreasonable hatred. In the coming years, the settlers in Texas would rapidly grow weary of the savagery and blood lust of those two tribes and just about wipe out the Comanche and Kiowa. What remained would be herded up into Oklahoma Territory and put on reservations. But for now, the two nations were strong in numbers and many were determined to kill any white they saw . . . although there was seldom any trouble in or close to Bent's Fort.

Jamie fashioned a rifle boot for each mule's pack and made certain the weapons were loaded. He wanted the two of them to have as much fire-power as possible in case of attack, and he felt there would be trouble, coming or going or both.

The two men kissed their wives and kids, shook hands with friends, and were gone within the hour. Five miles later, it seemed the settlement was no closer than the moon, for the men became mere specks in the vastness of the wilderness. They made camp early and chose it carefully, for mules were great prizes among the Indians.

“Could be any Indians who spot us will know that we're heading for supplies and will wait until we return before they strike,” Sam said.

“Maybe. Unless they're Comanche or Kiowa. They'll attack us simply because they hate us.”

“With any good reason, Jamie?”

“Oh, sure. We're coming in and taking land they claim is theirs. The mood among many whites is that the only good Indian is a dead one. You saw what the various tribes did when they went on the warpath back east, Sam.”

Sam nodded his head in agreement and turned the venison in the frying pan. “It wasn't a pretty sight.”

“It's worse than that out here. You heard the stories Grandpa told.”

“You believe them, Jamie?”

“Yes. Every word.”

“Will the two cultures ever be able to live side by side, you think?”

“Not in our lifetime. Not until the whites so thoroughly defeat the Indians they break the backs of the tribes. It's going to be a bloody next thirty or forty years, Sam. Our kids will be fighting the Indians long after we're gone, I'm thinking.”

“What a depressing thought.”

“Keep talking to me, Sam, and don't look around. We've got company.”

“Indians?”

“Yes. They're creeping up on us. I think they might be Kiowa who want the fight over before dark. Grandpa said the Kiowa don't like to fight at night.”

Jamie had chosen a good defensive position. The horses and mules were behind them and the Indians, tucked away in a cul de sac created by centuries of the creek overflowing its banks. They had plenty of water but only slight graze.

Sam quickly cut his eyes. “I see them. Can you tell the tribe?”

“I'm sure they're Kiowa now that I've gotten a good look at them. They've painted their legs black and are wearing red shirts; that means we're in for a hell of a fight. They're the elite of the Kiowa warriors. So I'm told.”

After pulling all their loaded weapons close to them, Sam looked up at the sky. “Plenty of daylight left.”

Jamie watched a blur of black and red race from rock to rock. The Kiowa carried a lance and on the lance were scalps. Several scalps. One was light brown, the other from a blonde woman. “They're on the warpath, Sam. And damn sure of themselves, too. That's going to work against them. They're over-confident. When you see a target, shoot.”

Sam's reply was to jerk his rifle to his shoulder and fire. The muzzle spat fire and smoke and the ball flew true. A Kiowa jumped to his moccasins and then fell forward, his chest bloody.

They came in a rush, screaming war cries. Jamie fired, saw one go down, jerked up another rifle, and put one more Kiowa on the rocky earth. Sam's rifle roared and a fourth Kiowa went down. The others went to the ground and scrambled away. Four warriors down in a heartbeat was not good. Something was wrong with their medicine.

Jamie quickly reloaded and stole a glance at Sam. The man's face was pale under the tan, but his hands were steady. “They'll have to think about this now, Sam. They might camp just out of range and pray and sing and play flutes. And they'll play those damn things all night long. When they stop playing, they're coming at us. But no white man ever knows for sure what an Indian is going to do.”

Sam smiled and asked, “How do you know all that about the Kiowa, Jamie?”

“By listening to others talk. I owe a lot to Preacher, that time he traveled with us for weeks. Even young as he was, he was very knowledgeable about the west. And Black Thunder is also a good talker, and I'm a real good listener.” Jamie grunted as he caught a glimpse of red slipping toward them. “So much for my wonderful observations concerning Indians, Sam. Here they come again.”

Sam cocked his rifle.

“I am Man Who Is Not Afraid!” Jamie suddenly shouted, startling the hell out of Sam Montgomery, who just about fired his rifle at the unexpected shout in a strange tongue. “I am a friend to all. Why do you make war against me?”

The Kiowa stopped their forward movement and fell to the ground.

“I am Little Otter!” the shout came to the two white men. “I do not care who you are. You will die.”

“No, Little Otter,” Jamie called. “It is you who will die. I have faced ten times your number. Alone. And I have emerged victorious. I have left the bodies of my enemies cold on the ground for hundreds of miles behind me. You know I speak the truth. I am friends with Black Thunder. You do not want Black Thunder for an enemy, Little Otter. Think about that.”

“I am not afraid of Black Thunder!”

“I didn't say you were. Just that he would make a very bad enemy. And you are very deep in his territory.”

Sam smiled as Jamie continued putting doubt into the minds of the Kiowa; at least he thought that's what Jamie was doing. Since he didn't speak a word of any Indian tongue, he could only guess. But it seemed a good guess.

Little Otter's blood lust was running high, and he was in no mood to listen to words of caution. But the Black Legs with him had also heard Jamie's words, and they all had heard of the great warrior Man Who Is Not Afraid, also known as Man Who Plays With Wolves and Panthers. Some of them exchanged glances in the late afternoon sun. Their eyes seemed to be saying: Man Who Is Not Afraid speaks the truth.

The Kiowa had also been careless in attacking the camp; they had not thoroughly checked it out. It was a good camp and would be very hard for them to overwhelm the two defenders. These were not cowardly thoughts. Just prudent ones.

“Take your dead and wounded and ride away!” Jamie called. “They died bravely and were fine warriors. I will talk of their bravery for years to come.”

Most of the Kiowa Black Legs nodded their heads in agreement with that. Man Who Is Not Afraid was a true warrior. He was paying them all respect.

But Little Otter's hate for the white man ran deep. And it was not unjustified, for his father and brother had been ambushed and killed by renegade white men. They had been scalped and their bodies mutilated. Little Otter hated all white men. He shouted insults at Jamie's words.

“I can't convince Little Otter,” Jamie whispered to Sam. “I think most of the others would rather pull out. But Little Otter is not going to give that order.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“We're all right. We couldn't have chosen a better spot to defend. They don't have enough men to storm this position. If we can kill two or three more of this band, the others will leave with or without Little Otter. Taking heavy losses is not acceptable to the Indian.”

“It isn't acceptable to me, either,” Sam said, his humor desert dry.

Jamie smiled. Sam was a good man to have when trouble called.

“What is he saying, Jamie?”

Jamie chuckled. “A lot of things that I'm glad you can't understand.” He shouted something back to Little Otter and the leader of the band of Kiowa screamed his outrage at the words.

“What'd you say, Jamie?”

“Let's just say I questioned his manhood. That's the best I can do. It loses something in the translation.”

Little Otter gradually began losing his warrior's way as Jamie continued to heap insult after insult on the sub-chief's head. The Kiowa with him saw this and were saddened, for it meant that Little Otter had failed as a Black Leg. The Kiowa sensed that Man Who Is Not Afraid was going to kill Little Otter, for the sub-chief was so angry he was trembling with rage. That was not good.

“We go,” a Black Leg said to Little Otter.

“No.” Little Otter knew his leadership days were over. He would be kicked out of the Black Legs Society.

“Our medicine is bad,” another said. “We are too far away from our lodges and we are too few in number. Man Who Is Not Afraid has offered us our dead. Besides, if Black Thunder finds us, we will have no chance of staying alive. We must go.”

“You are all cowards!” Little Otter spat the words at the Black Legs.

“And you are a fool!” Little Otter was told. “Man Who Is Not Afraid?”

“I'm right here,” Jamie called.

“I cannot speak for Little Otter. But I say this for the rest of us: we will collect our dead and leave.”

“I will not fire on you.”

The Kiowa laid their weapons on the ground and quickly gathered up three dead and one badly wounded warrior. “We go now, Man Who Is Not Afraid.”

“Have a safe journey back to your lodges. Go in peace.”

“Thank you.”

The Kiowa rode out. All but one.

“Now what?” Sam asked, when the sounds of the hooves had faded away.

“Little Otter can't return to his village. I've humiliated him in the eyes of his men. He's through as a leader. The only way he can in part redeem himself is to kill me.”

“That's not acceptable either,” Sam said quickly.

“He won't kill me, Sam. I was trained by the best knife fighter in the entire Shawnee nation. Ride out, Little Otter!” Jamie called. “I give you your life.”

Little Otter very bluntly told Jamie what he could do with that suggestion.

“I think I understood that,” Sam said.

“Yeah, that's plain enough in any language.”

Jamie and Little Otter exchanged insults for several minutes, with Jamie clearly the winner in the verbal war. Little Otter was so angry he was not making any sense toward the end. He threw his old rifle out in the clearing.

“What the hell?” Sam said.

“It's time.” Jamie tossed his rifle out and stood up, pulling his Bowie knife from leather. He stepped out into the clearing. Little Otter leaped out from behind cover and the two men faced each other.

“Now you die!” Little Otter screamed at him.

“I don't think so,” Jamie said calmly.

The two men closed.