Eyes of Eagles (21 page)

* * *

Just about the only smart thing that Hart Olmstead did was not to lead the column of men. He stayed in the middle of the column, surrounded and therefore protected by his own men from shot or arrow that might come from the swamps that lay silent and deadly to his right.

After several miles had passed uneventfully, the men began to relax. Not a one of them had taken the time to inspect the belly cinches on the horses, even after a few had broken back at their encampment. Cinch straps broke every now and then, and none of them had any reason to suspect that Jamie MacCallister had anything to do with it.

When Jamie struck again, it was not a silent attack. He had brought two rifles, and he used them. Two more of Olmstead's force toppled from their saddles, dead upon impact with the ground. Before the sounds of the shots had ceased echoing, Jamie was off and running to the north, toward where he had left his horse some distance away. He paused once, to charge his rifles, and then continued running, staying in the thicket, weaving along the game trails. His long hair was braided and his head covered with a brown bandanna. His face was deliberately streaked with mud and the natural green from leaves. His buckskins blended in with his surroundings. Jamie and the swamps were as one. He reached his next chosen ambush spot and waited, catching his breath. Then he mounted up and rode out of the thicket and into a clearing. He looked south. The column of men had not stopped to bury their dead. They were riding straight toward him. Jamie lifted his rifle and screamed like a panther, taunting those to the south. Then he turned the stallion's head to the north, and staying in the open, rode away slowly.

Hart Olmstead did exactly what Jamie hoped he would do. He screamed to his men and they spurred their horses into a gallop. Jamie smiled and stopped, turning around to face the galloping charge. Cinch straps began breaking and men were tossed to the ground, many of them caught beneath the hooves of the horses galloping behind them. Olmstead hit the ground hard, as did his sons. LaBeau, realized what was happening, felt his saddle began to slide and threw himself to one side, landing hard, losing his rifle, but avoiding the deadly hooves of those horses behind him. LaBeau knew one thing: he was through with this hunt. Jamie Ian MacCallister would see no more of him. Hart Olmstead could take his money and go to hell with it.

It was bone-breaking and bloody pandemonium in East Texas. Jamie laughed at the sight and touched his heels to his horse and once more disappeared into the thicket. He rode south for a few hundred yards until he was opposite the scene of confusion. Leaping from the saddle, he fired into the tangled knot of addled men, emptying rifles and pistols. Then he was once more into the saddle, riding hard to the north. Two miles from the costly ambush, Jamie left the edge of the swamps and rode straight west for a couple of miles. Squatting in the timber, this time on the west side of the trail, he charged his empty weapons and waited.

Jamie ate a biscuit and took a drink from his water jug. He was a long way from being through with Hart Olmstead and his rapidly dwindling army of thugs and brigands.

To the south, Olmstead sat on the ground, blood streaming from a cut on his head suffered when he fell out of the saddle, and soundly cursed Jamie Ian MacCallister.

While Jamie munched on a biscuit and fried salt pork from his rucksack, a few miles south, Hart Olmstead surveyed his situation. It was not good. He had about twenty men left able to ride and fight, and a half a dozen of those were hurt. LaBeau had repaired his cinch strap and ridden off without saying a word. A moment later, a half dozen others exchanged silent glances and followed him. Hart did not curse them or yell out commands for them to stop. If the men did not have the backbone for the fight, he did not want them along. Besides, they were riding off without their pay, which was to be paid at Jamie MacCallister's death.

Hart walked over to Waymore Newby. “Are you with me, man?”

“I'm stayin,' ”Waymore assured him. “I want MacCallister nearabouts as bad as you do.”

Hart nodded and walked to his sons. All of them were cut and bruised from their impacting with the ground at great speeds. Jubal had a wild and unstable look in his eyes. His hatred for Jamie, instead of diminishing over the years, had grown to a fever intensity. Jubal was a whore-master and slaver in New Orleans, making a great deal of money. But he would never be content until he stood over Jamie's body and spat on the corpse.

“We'll move west a few miles, away from that accursed swamp,” Hart said. “Allen says they's another trail over yonder. Saddle up. We're riding.”

Jamie waited in the deep timber. He had chosen well. His place was thick with underbrush, so thick and tangled if any tried to come in after him, they would have to do so on foot. And this tangle of trees and vines and thorny brush ran for several miles deep and a dozen miles north to south. Jamie's horse was picketed far back in the timber, on graze and ample water. Jamie waited. And it was not a long wait. He smiled when he heard the riders coming. He had guessed correctly what Hart would do.

The column was, as before, formed to protect Hart Olmstead and his sons. The men were riding in sort of a loosely formed W, with the Olmstead family in the protected middle.

Jamie loosed an arrow and took a man down, the arrow driving in just above his belt, ripping through vital organs. The man screamed and toppled from the saddle.

Jamie instantly changed positions, notching another arrow as he moved. Guns crashed and sent balls into the brush he had just vacated. Jamie let fly another arrow and the arrow pinned a man's arm to his side. He yelled in pain and fought his horse. Jamie moved swiftly, this time on his belly, working his way through the choking underbrush, moving like a huge deadly serpent.

“Get in there and kill the bastard!” he faintly heard the words from Hart.

Yes, Jamie thought. Do come in here after me.

A half dozen men charged their horses into the timber and were stopped cold by the impenetrable growth. Jamie put an arrow into one's chest and the others, fear clouding their faces, raced back into the clearing. Hart and the others had disappeared behind a rise, for this country was gently rolling hills.

Again, Jamie changed position, on his way picking up the fallen man's rifle and powder horn and ball and patch pouch. The rifle was a good one, nearly new, and a heavy caliber. Jamie recharged the musket and slipped to the edge of the timber. He did not have to worry about anyone coming up behind him, or really, anyone coming up on either side of his position. If Hart tried anything, it would have to be a frontal assault.

The crest of the ridge was about a hundred yards away, an easy shot for Jamie if ever a target presented itself. But Hart's men were being very wary.

And Jamie saw the dark humor in that and allowed himself a cold, thin smile. He waited.

Behind the ridge, Hart was in a hard bind and knew it. That damn MacCallister had killed two more men and wounded another. He looked around at what was left of his men and grew discouraged. But the thought of calling a truce with Jamie never entered his mind. His hatred was that great.

“If we ride in any direction,” Waymore said, “MacCallister will just pick us off one at a time. If we stay here until dark...” His voice trailed off as he received a very dirty look from Olmstead.

“He can't be alone,” Patrick Olmstead said. “One man just can't do all that's been done this day.”

“He's alone,” one of the hired thugs from New Orleans said, as he wrapped a very dirty rag tightly around a sprained wrist. “My woman is French, deep into voodoo, and she says that Jamie MacCallister has spirits around him all the time. Good spirits and bad spirits. She warned me this mission would fail.”

Waymore, just about as ignorant as they come, was fascinated. “What else did she say about him?”

“That MacCallister is what the Indians call a shape-shifter.”

“What the hell is that?” Jubal asked.

“He can take the form of different animals,” the New Orleans man said. “Wolves, panthers, and the like.”

“Nonsense!” Hart scoffed.

Just about that time, Jamie started coughing like a panther, and then let loose with a blood-chilling panther scream from the timber.

Several of the men exchanged fearful glances. Most were ignorant to the soul, and it was a highly superstitious time. Four men made up their minds right there and then.

“We're leavin',” one said, after receiving nods from the others. “There ain't no amount of money worth dyin' for. And it wouldn't be wise to try and stop us.” They walked to their horses and booted their rifles. Then they found sticks and tied rags to the ends of the sticks and mounted up.

“MacCallister!” one shouted. “They's four of us a-leavin'. We ain't joshin' none. We're a-pullin' out and you ain't never gonna see us agin. These here is sticks in our hands with rags a-tied to the end. Our rifles is booted. We're headin' south. Please let us go.”

“Go and be damned!” Hart said. “I hope he shoots you all.”

“He won't,” the New Orleans man said. “ 'Cause he's got something that don't none of us have.”

“And what might that be?” Ernest Olmstead asked.

“Honor.”

The four men rode out slowly and headed south, each of them expecting a bullet in the back. Jamie let them go.

“Honor!” Jubal yelled at the New Orleans man. “Jamie MacCallister ain't got no honor. He's a goddamned killer is all he is.”

The New Orleans man turned his back to the angry young man without replying. MacCallister is damn sure killin' the hell out of us, he thought.

Jamie watched the four men ride out, then did some arithmetic. From the moment he rode away from his cabin, he knew he would be able to cut down the odds some; but he never dreamt he could accomplish what he had done these past twenty-four hours. Olmstead had started out with a fresh and well-equipped army. Now, if Jamie figured correctly, he was down to sixteen men, including Hart. Jamie didn't know it, but Olmstead had less than that.

Hart looked around him. He could not spot Titus or Robert. “Where the hell did those damn niggers go?” he threw out the question.

“Slipped off into the timber, I reckon,” a man with a bloody bandage around his head said. “It's not likely we'll ever see them again.”

Titus and Robert had stolen some supplies and during the confusion had slipped away. They headed northwest. They wanted no more of Jamie MacCallister or of Hart Olmstead. Mountain men visiting New Orleans had told them of the towering mountains, where a man could live free — if he didn't get killed by Injuns. Titus and Robert had good mounts, weapons, and food. They would ride until their pasts were far behind them, and then try to start anew. Both of them knew one thing for certain: they would never return to the Big Thicket country.

Jamie had taken a packet of food and a canteen of water from the dead man's horse. He ate the food and quenched his thirst and waited in the timber. The next move was up to Hart Olmstead.

Silently, in his mind, Hart Olmstead cursed Jamie MacCallister until he could think of nothing else to call him. He watched as his boy, Ernest, slipped to his side, being careful to stay well behind the ridge.

“Pa, it's over. We got to stay alive for the sake of our wounded kin west of here. MacCallister's done cut our force down to nothin'. Half of them that stayed is hurt. MacCallister's got us. It's his deck, his table, and his game.”

Hart gave his son a cold look. “Boy, are you suggestin' that we... ?”

Ernest cut him off. “I'm suggestin' that we live, Pa. I'm sayin' that we call a truce with MacCallister and ride on out of here, over to Nacogdoches. When Carl and the others is able to ride, we head back to New Orleans and get on with livin.' Look, Pa, I hate Jamie MacCallister, but I love life more. We got a good thing goin' in New Orleans. Are we goin' to throw all that away for one man?”

Patrick had slipped up and was listening. He nodded his head in agreement. “Ernest is right, Pa,” he said. “More'un half of the men we got left is talkin' 'bout pullin' out. If it was put to a vote, this fight would end right here and now.”

Olmstead's shoulders suddenly sagged and he looked and felt his middle age. Hell, he thought, I'm past middle age. He looked down at his hands. They were filthy. He stank of sweat. His clothing was permeated with the stale smell. Slowly, he nodded his head. “Fix a stick with a white rag. Tell MacCallister it's over as far as I'm concerned.”

“You ain't talkin' for me, Pa!” Jubal said. “Not now, not never. Not for me, and not for Abel Jackson. Me and him swore a blood oath a long time ago.” Jubal paled at the sounds of a dozen hammers being cocked. Slowly he turned. Rifles and pistols were pointed at him.

Ernest took Jubal's pistols and rifle. “Just stand easy, brother. This here is done.”

Hart took the stick with the torn shirt on it and waved it above the ridgeline. “MacCallister!” he shouted. “Listen to me. I know you ain't goin'to answer me, so just listen. This is Hart Olmstead talkin'. It's over, boy. You hear me? It's over. But I can't talk for my youngest, Jubal. Nor for Abel Jackson. But for me and the rest of mine, you and Kate live your lives. You'll not see me again. Ernest has got Jubal at gunpoint. And he'll be thataway 'til we're long gone. The men is headin' south, and me and mine is headin' over to the settlement to fetch the wounded back. You'll not see me again, MacCallister. Not never.”

Something in his voice caused Jamie to believe the man. “All right,” he called. “Ride on.”

Jubal tried to wrest a rifle from Ernest and his brother gave him a good pop on the side of the head with the butt of the rifle. Jubal went down, addled.

“Jamie? This here's Waymore Newby. I'll be ridin' with Olmstead. You've seen the last of me, MacCallister.”

Jamie most definitely did not believe that. But he called, “Ride on, Newby.”

Jamie watched the men leave. Hart and his sons, with Waymore tagging along, rode toward Nacogdoches, the rest of the men headed south. He waited until they were out of sight, and then fetched his horse. He buried the dead man with the arrow in his chest, although he wondered why he was taking the time.

Jamie was tired. Wearily, he climbed into the saddle and rode east. At the edge of the thicket, he turned his horse's head to the north. He had not gone a mile when he heard the sounds of hooves drumming the ground. He slipped into the thicket and waited. It was Bonham and fifteen men from in and around San Augustine. They were all heavily armed and riding with set jaws and fire in their eyes.

Jamie slowly walked his horse out of the thicket and the men reined up. They stared at the fresh scalps tied to the horse's mane and at Jamie's bloody buckskins. They looked at the camouflage on his face and hands.

Bonham was the first to speak. “I gathered up some men and we rode down to help. Looks like you didn't need any help.”

Jamie nodded his head.

“How many were there, lad?” a settler asked.

“Fifty-two,” Jamie replied.

“
Fifty-two!
” another man blurted. “Where are they, lad? Let's go finish this.”

“If they's enough of us,” another man added.

“It's already finished,” Jamie told him. “I let the last sixteen or so ride on.”

The mounted men sat their saddles and stared at him. A farmer that Jamie knew slightly — he thought his name was Stoddlemire — said, “You killed the rest?”

“Most of them. Although some chose to quit the fight and ride out on their own. I let them go. The wounded was taken over to Nacogdoches. Hart Olmstead and his sons have ridden over there to see about them. They called off the fight now and forever, and I agreed to that.”

“You believe that, lad?” Bonham asked.

“For the most part. I think that one day Jubal Olmstead and Abel Jackson will return to pick up the feud. As will the Newby Brothers and the Saxon boys. But John Jackson is dead, and Hart Olmstead has had enough. And so have I.”

“You look beat,” another citizen from San Augustine remarked.

“I am,” Jamie admitted. He'd been pumped up with adrenaline for hours, and now the letdown was visible. “But I have to get back to Kate and the others.”

“Do you relax, lad,” Bonham said. “They're just fine. Some of your Indian friends showed up and would've like to have scared me slap out of my boots. One second I was enjoyin' a cup of coffee, all alone by your cabin, the next second I was surrounded by Redskins. An army couldn't get to Kate and the others, even if they was to home.”

“You and your family have got to start socializing, Jamie,” another man said. “After all, we're all well within riding distance of your cabins.”

“Yes,” said a man Jamie knew only as Howard. “It's time we had a long talk with you. We've grand plans for Texas.”