Eyes of Eagles (6 page)

“I'll accept that,” Sam said.

Both Marwick and Jackson breathed a bit easier. Neither of them wanted to see a duel between Sam and Hart. Dueling was still very common. It had not been that many years back that Andrew Jackson and Thomas Hart Benton had gone at each other with pistol and dirk in a Nashville, Tennessee, hotel, with Jackson coming out on the short end of that fight.

It took both Marwick and John Jackson to get Olmstead into the saddle, with Olmstead muttering fearful curses, carefully directed at no one in particular. Olmstead did not once look at Sam. John passed the reins to him and then the men climbed onto their mounts and started slowly up the road.

“No good will come of this,” Sam said to no one in particular. “I have just made a mortal enemy, for Hart Olmstead is a good hater.”

“You whipped him fair, Sam,” Luke said. “You did not use no boots on him nor bitin' or eye-gougin'.”

“That's the problem, Luke. I whipped him. And he'll not forget it. Not ever.”

“You men gather over yonder under the shade tree,” Sarah called from the open door to the house. “We'll bring coffee and bread and molasses out. I don't want you stomping around in this house with your muddy boots.”

“By the Lord!” Mason said. “That was a good fight, it was. I don't recall ever seein' none better.”

While the men laughed and gathered under the huge old tree by the side of the house, Jamie slipped inside and put Sam's pistol back into the holster, then quickly rejoined the men as Sarah and the other ladies were bringing out refreshments.

Sam sidled over to Jamie and whispered, “Did you put my pistol back, Jamie?”

Without changing expression, Jamie said, “Yes, sir.”

“Would you have used it, lad?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ummm,” was all Sam ever said about that.

The following morning, Jamie started doing chores before Sam or Sarah were even out of bed. He had not forgotten how to milk — but he had forgotten how a tail full of burrs felt when it came in fast and hard contact with the side of his head — and had the cow milked, the hogs slopped, the eggs gathered, and firewood stacked neatly when a still tousled-haired and sleepy-eyed Sam stuck his head out the back door and called to him.

“Yes, sir?” Jamie said, walking up to the back door of the home.

“How long have you been up, lad?”

“Since the cow started lowing.”

Sam smiled. “That fight yesterday must have taken more out of me than I thought. Well . . . Sarah says to tell you that breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. Why don't you come on inside and help me grind the beans and we'll have some coffee in no time.”

“All right, sir.”

Sam did not say anything about the way Jamie was dressed. In his buckskins. It was not that it was unusual dress for the time, for many men still wore skins, but for Jamie... he would have to somehow point out that it would be best if he dressed more like a schoolboy, which he would be in a short time. The sooner the townspeople forgot he had once been a Shawnee captive, the better for everybody. He lifted his gaze. Jamie was seated at the table, watching him.

The boy was so damn quick it startled Sam.

“I'll wear my skins working out here, sir. But I had to save the other clothes. I've only got the one set.”

Sarah gasped as she worked at the stove and Sam closed his eyes and shook his head. “Jamie... I'm sorry. Sarah, how's about us going into town today? We'll get Jamie all decked out in store-bought shirts and britches.”

“What a grand idea!” She whirled around from the stove. “And I have to get some things for the to-do this Saturday night. Yes. We'll all go into town to Abe Caney's store. But first the cow has to be milked, the hogs slopped, the eggs...” Her eyes fell on the basket of eggs on a chopping block.

“Jamie did all that while we were still abed, Sarah,” Sam said softly. “I think we have us a godsend here.”

“You did it all, Jamie?” Sarah asked.

“It wasn't that much. If I didn't do at least that much before the others got out of their robes back at the Shawnee town, I got a beating, I learned to do things fast and right the first time.”

Tears sprang into Sarah's eyes. Sam ducked his head for a few seconds. “You'll get no beatings here, Jamie,” she said.

Sam lifted his head and there was a twinkle in his eyes. “Besides, I'm not so sure I could whip Jamie.”

* * *

Abe Caney pulled Sam off to one side while Sarah was busy shopping. “That must have been some fight out at your place yesterday, Sam. The whole town's talking about it.”

“It's over, Abe. I hope I never have to have another one.”

But Abe was eager for details. “Where'd you learn to fight, Sam? You're known as a peaceable man.”

“My father insisted I learn all forms of self-defense, Abe. From fencing to bare-knuckle boxing. His father knew James Figg, really the first bare-knuckle champion.”

While Sarah shopped and Sam and Abe chatted, Jamie stood on the porch of the store and watched as several boys walked up the street. He had a hunch they would angle over to him, and they did.

Jamie did not see the Reverend Hugh Callaway walk up the short street and stop a dozen yards from where Jamie stood, leaning up against a post and sucking on a piece of peppermint candy. Nor did he know that two of the boys were sons of John Jackson and Hart Olmstead. He would learn that very soon.

“Hey, there's the Injun boy,” Jubal Olmstead said.

“Yeah,” Abel Jackson said. “Let's go over and see if he wants to fight.”

“You better leave him alone,” the third boy said. “My pa said if I called him names or caused him any trouble, he'd take a piss-elm branch to my butt. And he will, too.”

“Then you just stand aside and stay out of this,” Abel said. He was built like his father, and had just about as much sense. The three boys were all thirteen years old and as boys were prone to be during that hard and brutal time, they were strong from long hours of chopping wood, clearing timber, moving huge rocks, and putting in back-breaking hours in the fields.

Jamie sucked on his peppermint stick and watched the trio move toward him. One of the boys left the group and walked over to sit on the edge of a watering trough.

“Hey, you!” Abel called to Jamie. “Red nigger. Why don't you leave town. Nobody wants you here.”

Jamie's eyes narrowed slightly but other than that his expression did not change. He said nothing.

“Maybe he's forgot how to talk English,” Jubal said. “I bet that's it.”

“Let's learn him,” Abel suggested. “Hey, Injun-boy, can you say, 'I'm 'bout to get a heap big butt-kickin'?”

The two boys thought that was hysterically funny. The third boy sat on the edge of the trough and did not laugh. He watched Jamie. He thought that maybe Abel and Jubal were about to make a big mistake. His pa had been among those who'd met Jamie, and his pa had been plenty impressed by the boy. More man than boy, his pa had said. And added that his son had best walk light around the Shawnee-raised young fellow. There was a mean glint to the lad's eyes.

I will witness this, Reverend Callaway thought. And when the dust settles, I will testify that the two young scalawags egged this on.

“Get off that porch, Injun-nigger,” Abel said. “And take your whopping, 'cause you're sure gonna get one.” He added a most disgusting phrase concerning Jamie's mother.

Jamie left the porch like a mainspring that had been wound too tight. His moccasins hit Abel flush in the face and Reverend Callaway winced as the sound of Abel's nose breaking crunched its way to him. Jamie whirled and kicked out, his foot striking Jubal behind one knee and bringing the boy down in the dirt. Then Jamie was all over him and had drawn first blood before Sam and Abe could rush out of the store and separate the boys. From the look on Jubal's face, the older and bigger boy was mightily relieved that somebody had broken up the fight.

Reverend Callaway stepped out. “Jamie didn't start this, Sam, Abe. And the Jefferson boy didn't have anything to do with it.” He told the merchant and the farmer what had happened just about the time Sheriff Marwick came puffing up.

“You again!” he shouted to Jamie. “Damn little half Injun troublemaker.” He started toward Jamie and Sam stepped in front of him.

“I'd suggest you hear what Reverend Callaway has to say about it, Sheriff. And don't you ever call Jamie that again. Or I'll call you out and we'll settle this with pistols or blade. Your choice.”

Marwick sputtered for a few seconds, but he really wanted no trouble with Sam Montgomery. Sam was rich — to Marwick's mind — and wielded considerable power in the community. Besides that, after he'd witnessed the beating Sam had administered to Hart Olmstead, he was more than a little afraid of him.

The sheriff listened to the preacher and shook his head. “Them boy's daddies ain't gonna like this none, Reverend. They's gonna be trouble and it's gonna be bad. One boy's nose is busted and the other got kicked in the privates and can't even get up. Lord God, where'd that kid learn to fight?”

Sam looked at Jamie. The boy stood expressionless, his arms folded across his chest. There did not appear to be a mark on him. Sam looked at Reverend Callaway, who was also staring at Jamie. The preacher lifted one eyebrow in silent questioning.

Marwick helped Jubal to his feet. The boy stood half bent over, both hands holding his aching groin and tears of pain and rage streaming down his face. “I'll kill you!” he shouted to Jamie.

Jamie shrugged his shoulders in reply.

“You boys get on home,” Marwick told the two agitators. “Move!” He looked at Robert Jefferson, still sitting on the edge of the trough. “What's your part in all this, boy?”

“Nothing, Sheriff. I didn't do nothin'.”

“He's telling the truth,” Jamie spoke. He walked over to the boy and stuck out his hand.

Robert looked at the hand for a few seconds, then stood up with a grin and shook the hand.

Sheriff Marwick snorted in disgust and stalked off. Sam and Abe walked back into the store, Reverend Callaway with them. Jamie sat down on the edge of the watering trough with his new friend. He hesitated for a second, then gave Robert his last piece of peppermint candy.

“Hey, thanks! Where'd you learn to fight like that?”

“At the Shawnee town — warrior training.”

“You really took Injun warrior training?”

“Since I was nine. I think,” he added. “I'm not really sure how old I am.”

“You look like you're about fifteen.”

Jamie shook his head. “Eleven or twelve. One or the other. I'm sure of that. You going to be at the to-do this Saturday?”

“Plan to be. Pa says it's gonna be a whing-ding of an affair. Ma's got her party dress from the trunk and letting the wrinkles fall out. Pa's gonna cut my hair this week.” He looked at Jamie's long blond, shoulder-length hair, with all the berry dye washed out. “I wish I could grow my hair that way. You gonna cut it off?”

“I see no reason to.”

“Jamie? You made some bad enemies today. Them two won't forget it. They'll be lookin' to waylay you. You best walk careful from now on.”

“I always do,” Jamie said softly. And probably always will, he added silently.

* * *

The ladies began bringing food over Saturday morning. Jamie had never seen so much food — pies, cakes, cookies, roasts, and the like.

Jamie wondered if the families of Olmstead and Jackson would come to the party?

“Doubtful,” Sam told him. “We both made bad enemies, Jamie. Those two are spiteful, revengeful men. And their children are just like them.” He smiled. “All except Kate.”

“Kate who?”

“Kate Olmstead. Prettiest girl in this part of the state. Just about your age. And she's as sweet as honey. She spends a lot of time with Reverend Callaway's daughter, Judith. More time with them than she does at home. I don't think she likes her home life very much. She might be here for the party. She's a very sweet girl, Jamie. You'll like her.”

Sarah looked up from her kitchen work and smiled. “I'm glad you made a friend with Robert Jefferson, Jamie. He comes from a good Christian family.”

“We get along fine,” Jamie said.

Jamie scrubbed himself until he shone, bathing in the creek that ran not far from the house. During the summer months, Sam, too, bathed in the creek — it was a common practice on the frontier. When the first folks began arriving at the house, Sam and Jamie were all decked out in clean clothes, and in Jamie's case, new store-bought clothes. Hannah came out with Reverend and Mrs. Callaway . . . and Kate Olmstead. Hannah was escorted by a huge young man everybody called Swede. But even though Hannah was beautiful, Jamie only had eyes for Kate. He thought she was just about the prettiest thing he had ever seen. She had hair the color of wheat and dark blue eyes. All the young boys followed her around. But Kate had eyes only for Jamie. Jamie got so discombobulated looking at her he walked right into a tree and put a knot on his forehead.

Sam and Sarah were amused at the boy's antics.

“I think he's in love,” Sarah said.

“Oh, honey, they're just kids,” Sam replied.

“So were we, remember?” she reminded him.

“You're right. As usual.”

Hannah and Swede joined the young couple. They too had noticed Jamie and Kate.

“It's about time Jamie had some fun,” Hannah said. “God knows he's lost most of his childhood.”

The four of them stood apart from the laughing and gossiping crowd that spilled from the front to both sides of the yard. The Jackons and the Olm-steads were not in attendance, and the general consensus among everybody there was relief.

“Is Jamie really just eleven years old?” Sarah asked.

“Twelve, I believe. But he could easily pass for someone much older. He hadn't been at the Shawnee town five minutes before he whipped Tall Bull's son, Little Wolf. Jamie's a fighter.”

“Yes,” Sam said dryly. “I can attest to that.”

“And so can them rowdy boys who picked on him in town,” Swede said, his eyes sparkling. He chuckled. “I would have very much liked to have seen that.”

“It was brutal,” Sam said. “And frightening in a way. The boy fights with a coldness that is scary. And he is very skillful.”

“I'll tell you what he is now,” Hannah said, and they looked at her. “In love!”