Scream of Eagles (10 page)

While Jamie lingered over his whiskey, the bodies of Alonzo Barton and Reed Dunlap were carried off the street and to the undertaker, to be measured for a close coffin fit and planted the next day.

Jamie returned to the hotel and told the desk clerk to send up pen, ink, and paper, and retired to his room. He spent the rest of the afternoon writing letters, leaving them with the front desk to be posted as soon as possible.

Jamie told the marshal to use the money found in the pockets of the dead men to pay for their funeral and maybe hire several mourners and wailers for the service. Jamie knew he had recovered all of the stolen money he was likely to find. After almost two years at the hunt, that money would be spent.

Just before the stores closed for the night, Jamie bought supplies for the trail, checked on his horses, and then went back to his room. He was gone when the town awakened the next morning. Not even the night constable had seen him leave, and no one had any idea where he might have gone.

Exactly as Jamie had planned it.

The small Nebraska town just north of Julesburg was not known for being any haven for outlaws during the growing period of the West. Perhaps that was the very reason that three members of the Miles Nelson gang chose the town to reside in for a few months during the spring of '71.

But it wouldn't do them much good.

The three outlaws had taken up residence in the abandoned cabin of a homesteader who couldn't make a go of it and had gone back east. Roy Bellar, Carl Dews, and Jack Moore rustled a beeve every now and then—but never, if they could help it, from the same rancher or farmer—and in general kept a very low profile, going into town only occasionally for beans, salt, bacon, flour, tobacco, and what not.

When the marshal of the town saw Jamie ride in one sunny mid-morning, he wisely decided to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. The marshal was by no means a coward, just a very prudent man who had a wife and several kids to look after. And after seeing Jamie MacCallister ride into town, he quickly reached the conclusion that it would be very difficult to take care of one's family from the grave.

The lawman returned to his office, made a fresh pot of coffee, and waited for Jamie to pay him a visit.

It was not a long wait.

The marshal had never seen Jamie up close, just heard stories about him all his life. When Jamie opened the door, the marshal winced at the size of the man. He was about sixty years old, the marshal accurately guessed, but still one hell of a man, and not one the lawman would want to tangle with.

“Just thought I'd stop by and howdy and shake with you, Marshal,” Jamie said.

“Pleasure is all mine, Mr. MacCallister. I've been hearin' about you all my life. Have some coffee—it's fresh made—and sit.”

Coffee poured, Jamie sat down and came right to the point. “You've got three outlaws living outside of town, Marshal. Part of the old Miles Nelson gang.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to go arrest them?” the marshal asked, with about as much enthusiasm as a man facing the prospect of an impacted wisdom tooth.

“I want you to keep the peace in town and let me handle the outlaws.”

“Be my guest,” the marshal quickly agreed to the suggestion. “You'll not get no interference from me.”

“Fine,” Jamie said with a smile. “What's the best place to eat in town?”

“Rosie's. Right next to the hotel.”

Jamie drained his coffee cup and stood up. “Thanks for the coffee, Marshal. I'll see you around.”

“I 'magine.”

Jamie paused at the door and smiled. “But not if you're lucky, you're thinking.”

“Nobody blames you for your hunt, Mr. MacCallister. At least, not nobody I ever talked to. The Nelson gang hit North Platte 'bout three years ago, robbin' and killin.' It was just after the railroad had pushed through. There ain't nobody 'round here gonna shed any tears if you kill three or a hundred and three or three hundred and three of that gang. But I do worry about the women and the kids.”

“When it comes time, you'll know to clear the streets, Marshal. I'll make sure of that.”

“Fair enough. You enjoy your meal, Mr. MacCallister. There's a bathhouse right behind the Chinaman's laundry. Lots of hot water, and the towels are clean.”

“Thanks.”

After his bath, while his good clothes were being aired and then ironed, Jamie sat in his hotel room and carefully cleaned his guns, then rubbed oil into the pockets of his holsters. He knew it would not be long before word of his arrival reached the three outlaws.

But this time the outlaws didn't brace Jamie—they ran.

* * *

Shortly after the photograph of the shoot-out taken in the small town just outside of Fort Sedgwick began circulating, several events occurred that would, in time, alter the lives of the residents of Valley, Colorado. The three young men from back east, Marshall Henry Ludlow, Richard Farnsworth, and Charles Bennett, left their wives (and their girlfriends) in Denver, hired a guide and several bodyguards, and ventured off into the wilds of Colorado, heading for Valley. They had heard about land for the taking around there, and their fathers had ordered them to check it out and if it looked promising, buy it or make arrangements to lease it from the government.

The second event, this one directly affecting Jamie, involved the kin of Bradford, Newby, Layfield, Olmstead, and several other men whose families had been involved in the hunting of Jamie and Kate decades back. Most of these men had not yet been born when their ancestors were chasing Jamie. Those original family members were buried in graves that stretched from Kentucky to Colorado.

And now their distant relatives had taken up the hunt.

As Morgan MacCallister said when he heard the news, “Seems like these people would learn to leave Pa alone after a while.”

The third event that would affect both Jamie and the people in Valley was the arrival in town of Ben F. Washington. The first impression that settled in Ben's brain when he stepped out of the stagecoach was that he had never seen so damn many blond-haired and blue-eyed people in all his life, all mixed in with Chinese, Negroes, and people of Indian and Spanish descent.

But they were all friendly and courteous and helpful, pointing out the hotel and the sheriff's office and the office of the local newspaper.

Ben checked into the hotel and then went to the sheriff's office. It did not surprise him one whit to learn that a MacCallister was the sheriff of the county, for in previous research he had discovered that the MacCallisters were the controlling power in not just this county, but also in several counties surrounding Valley.

Ben knew that he would have to walk light until the people learned that he was not here to upset any apple carts, but to write the true and unbiased story of Jamie and Kate MacCallister.

When Ben stepped into the sheriff's office, he pulled up short at the sight of Falcon MacCallister, sitting at a desk, smiling at him.

“Hello, Ben,” the gambler/gunfighter with the cold pale eyes said. “We've been waiting for you.”

* * *

When two days had passed uneventfully, Jamie saddled up and headed out in the country. He asked questions at each farm and ranch house and soon began piecing the puzzle together. He rode over to the old homesteader's shack and found the signs of three men—three men who had very recently and very hurriedly packed up and hauled their asses. Their tracks headed north, toward the North Platte River. Jamie memorized the horses' hoofprints, rode back to town and checked out of the hotel. A few minutes later he was on the outlaws' trail.

A few days later, Jamie knew where they were heading: to the trading post on the North Platte, west of Chimney Rock and just north of the Wildcat Hills area. It would be years after the coming shoot-out at the trading post before the area would be settled, blocked out, and known as Scottsbluff.

On the third day out, Jamie reined up and swung down, studying the tracks. Three more men had joined the trio, riding up from the south.

“Six at one pop,” Jamie muttered to the warm winds of spring that blew gently around him. “This will be interesting.”

Jamie built a small fire and put water on to boil. He went to his pack and took out the derringer he'd taken from Mario Nunez and checked it out, firing it several times. It was accurate up to about twelve or fifteen feet; after that, there was no telling where the bullet might go. He loaded both barrels and tucked it behind his sash.

Jamie fried bacon and made pan bread, then took his time eating and drinking the strong coffee. The North Platte River murmured a few hundred yards away.

Jamie wondered what month it might be, and decided it must be April . . . or maybe early May. He'd lost track of time. One thing he did know for sure: the remaining members of the Miles Nelson gang were getting panicky. In about eighteen months, Jamie had cut their gang size by nearly half, leaving a trail of blood and bodies behind him. Those remaining were running scared.

With damn good reason, Jamie thought darkly. Without realizing it was happening, his face had hardened and his eyes turned cold at his thoughts.

Jamie was reaching for the coffeepot when he heard the whisper of moccasins on grass. He threw himself to one side, grabbing up his rifle on the roll.

“Whoa, now!” the voice called. “Just take 'er easy, big feller. I'm friendly. Smelled your coffee a-bilin' and your meat a-cookin'. I don't mean no harm to no man.”

“Come on in. But sneaking up on me is not the healthiest thing to do.”

As the man led his horses into camp, his age was difficult to guess. Jamie thought he might be anywhere from a badly used sixty to a well-preserved ninety.

Jamie pointed to the coffeepot, and the old man squatted down with a grunt and poured a tin cup full, then sat back and sipped and sighed contentedly.

“Help yourself to some bacon and bread,” Jamie told him. “I can always cook more.”

“Right nice of you, MacCallister. Neighborly.”

“Do I know you?”

“You look just like your grandpa. I knowed him in his de-clinin' years, boy . . .”

Jamie smiled. He hadn't been called “boy” in years.

“Then years 'fore you and your family come west, I went out to Californee. Got married to a Mex woman and was happy right up 'til the day she passed over. That were . . . oh, 'bout 1840, I reckon. Then I come back to the mountains. I been to St. Louie this time, for the last time, I reckon.”

“You don't plan on going back?” Jamie squatted down and refilled his coffee cup.

“Nope. But I do plan on dyin'. Hell, I'm
old,
boy. I were borned 'fore the turn of the century. 1785, I think it was. That would make me ... what year is this, anyways?”

“1871.”

“Well, then, let me see. That would make me eighty-six year old, boy. Don't you think it's 'bout time for me to see the elephant?”

“You going to pick your own time and place, huh?”

The old man smiled. He didn't have a tooth in his mouth. “Something like that.” He tapped his chest. “Bad ticker. Docs say I could go anytime. But I'll make it back to the mountains. Even as much as I loved that Mex woman, I always missed the High Lonesome.”

“I know the feeling. You have a name?”

“Shore. Ever'body's got a handle. Mine's Jefferson Washburn. Ain't that a mouthful? But I been called any number of names. I'll answer to near'bouts anything.”

“How did you manage to slip up on me, Jeff?”

The old man cackled. “Son, when I furst come out here, there
wasn't
no other white man that I knowed of where I was. Hell, Bridger wasn't even born when I come out here. Your grandpa was out here, but me and him didn't cross trails 'til some years later. Man had to be able to slip up on folks to stay alive. But, I'll be truthful with you. My horses was down yonder in them river trees, and I was takin' me a snooze when them outlaws met up with three other bad-lookin' ol' boys. They done some real ugly talkin' 'bout you. You know where they's headed, don't you?”

“Trading post by the bluffs.”

“That's right.”
⁷

The old man made him a bread and bacon sandwich and wolfed it down with no difficulty . . . despite his having no teeth. He poured another cup of coffee, settled back, and put his old wise eyes on Jamie.

“How old are you, young feller?”

Jamie chuckled at the “young feller” bit. “Sixty, I think.”

“And you're going to tackle all six of these hombres by your lonesome, hey?”

“That's my plan.”

The old man grunted. “They readin' about you in all the big cities, boy. Some folks is callin' for the government to send people in to arrest you. Some of them newspaper writers, they writin' articles that say you're wrong in doin' what you do. They say what you're doin' is barbaric and you ought to be stopped. What do you think about that?”

“I really don't give a damn what others think about it.”

The old man chuckled at that.

“My own son tried to lecture me about law and order,” Jamie said. “Just a few hours after his ma was shot and killed by these very highwaymen and trash.”
⁸

“Well, that don't surprise me none. This younger generation is goin' to hell in a hand basket. No respect for their elders. Why, hell, I seen a woman smokin' a cigarette in St. Louis.” The old trapper stood up with an ease that belied his age. “I'm fixin' to cut south now, boy. Head for the Lodgepole, cross the Grasslands and on into the mountains. Thank you kindly for the coffee and the grub. Good luck to you, MacCallister.”

Jamie lifted a hand in farewell.

The old man turned and looked at him. “One of them bastards you're chasin' is Hulon Nations. He's got a big, bushy black beard. And he's a bad one, boy. Lightnin' quick with them guns. 'Bout half crazy, I think. He's been around awhile. He ain't no spring chicken. I heared another one called Tim and the third one was called Ray.”

“Tim Sandberg and Ray Reynolds.”

“I reckon that's them. But I know one thing for certain: they're all lowlifes and scum and trash. Fifty years ago, we used to hang people like that right on the spot. This civilization and progress people jaw about just ain't what it's cracked up to be, boy. And to my way of thinkin' it's just gonna get worser and worser. I'm glad my string is just about played out. I think this nation is doomed to fall like the Roman Empire.”