Scream of Eagles (12 page)

Gary Crane managed to jerk out both pistols before the second blast caught him full force in the belly and knocked him to the floor.

“I yield! I yield!” Jed screamed, holding both hands high in the air. “Don't shoot, MacCallister. I give it up.”

Jamie had his right-hand Colt out, hammer back. He stood and stared at the outlaw. “You would complicate my life by turnin' yellow on me, boy.”

“I got a witness! ”Jed yelled. “I ain't grabbin' no iron. I'm surrenderin'. You won't shoot no man with his hands in the air. ”

“Aw, hell, shoot the son of a bitch, MacCallister,” the trading post owner said. “The nearest army post is a hundred miles to the northeast, man. It ain't even got a name yet. The 17th Infantry is there.”
¹⁰

“Shut your mouth, you old fool!” Jed bellered. “I'm surrenderin'.”

“I'd take a bullet over hangin', boy,” the older man said. “Think about it.”

Jamie cut his eyes. “Get his guns and hold him 'til I can get shackles from my saddlebags. I'll not shoot no man with his hands in the air.”

Jed Hudson was so relieved to hear that, he wet his pants.

“Shit!” the trading post owner said. “A lot of fuss and bother, you ask me.”

Jamie got heavy handcuffs and ankle shackles from his supplies and chained Jed down tight. “I'll drag the bodies out,” he told the owner. “Where do you want to plant them?”

“Wherever you've a mind to. I ain't diggin' no holes for the likes of them.”

“That ain't decent!” Jeb yelled.

“You're a fine one to talk about decent,” Jamie told him. “You'll dig the holes. Move!”

“I wet my britches,” Jed muttered.

“You'll do more'un that when they hang you,” the trading post owner said. “I hear tell you dump a full load when the rope tightens.”

“God
damn
you!” Jed screamed.

Jamie found a shovel and tossed it to Jed, who awkwardly caught it with his shackled hands. “Out back,” Jamie told him. “I'll resupply while you dig. Then we're gone.”

“Foolishness, you ask me,” the trading post owner mumbled. “I'd just shoot him and be done with it. Moon Woman!” he hollered. “Fetch us somethin' to eat. I be's hongry around my mouth.”

Jamie pulled out at dawn, with the shackled Jed Hudson in tow. Now that the certainty of what faced him had sunk home, Jed was at first angry and then fell into a sullen mood . . . which suited Jamie just fine. He didn't have time for a lot of chitchat, for he was traveling at a steady pace, putting a lot of miles behind them. It was late afternoon when Jamie called a halt and rubbed down the horses and picketed them on good graze, close to water. Just before dark, he would move them closer to the camp. The Indians wouldn't harm Man Who Is Not Afraid, but it would be a good joke on him to steal his horses.

“They's Injuns out there.” Jed finally broke his sullen silence.

“They won't bother me. They might take your hair, but they won't bother me.”

“I guess you think that's funny.”

“No. Just stating a fact.”

“That old man back yonder at the tradin' post—he'd have shot me out-right, wouldn't he?”

“Without giving it a second thought.”

Jed ate his beans and bacon and bread in silence for a time. After taking a sip of coffee, he said, “I didn't have no choice, really. I had to become an outlaw.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. You see, my daddy whupped me a lot.”

Jamie smiled. “Obviously, he didn't whip you enough.”

Jeb ignored that. “And I always wanted me a paint pony like the boy down the road had. But Pa, he said we didn't have the money for one.”

“So you stole one.”

“Huh! How'd you know that?”

“Call it a lucky guess.” Jamie's reply was decidedly dry.

“Well, it ain't right for some to have more than others.”

“Someday, someone is going to come up with a word to cover that kind of thinking.”

Jamie wasn't aware of it, but that person was born in 1818. His name was Karl Marx.

“Are you goin' to make me sleep with these shackles on my ankles and wrists?”

“All night long.”

“That ain't right, neither. 'Pose I give you my word I won't try to run away?”

“You have to be joking.”

Jed smiled. “It was worth a try, weren't it? Hey, it don't bother you a bit that I'm gonna hang, do it?”

“Not a bit.”

“Why? You don't know me. I can tell you for a fact it wasn't me who shot your wife.”

“I suppose now you're going to tell me you didn't shoot anybody that day down in Valley . . . or in any of the other fifty or so towns the Nelson gang has raided? Or you never harmed a soul on a stage or a train? Or you never took part in any of the foul deeds done to women and young girls at lonely farm and ranch houses?”

“ 'Pose I say I'm sorry about them things?”

“Tell it to a judge and jury.”

“I will. And they'll believe me, too.”

Jamie smiled and took a dodger out of his jacket pocket. “Thomas Jed Hudson,” he read. “Wanted for murder and rape and robbery in Missouri, Kansas, Colorado. Wanted for cattle rustling and murder in Texas and Arizona. Wanted for rape in Arkansas. You helped torture a woman to death in Louisiana.” He looked up from the wanted poster and stared at Jed in the fast-fading light. “You want me to go on?”

“I reckon not.”

“Then eat your supper and shut up.”

* * *

Federal Marshal Pat Riordan had stopped at the army installation for food and rest. He was just about ready to leave when scouts reported back to the commanding officer that Jamie MacCallister was on his way in with a man who was shackled in the saddle. The marshal smiled and decided to delay his departure.

Inside the post compound, Jamie jerked Jed out of the saddle and asked for the commanding officer.

“No need for that,” Pat said, walking up, his badge pinned to his coat. He stuck out a hand. “Pat Riordan. United States Deputy Federal Marshal.”

Jamie shook the hand and then jerked a thumb at Jed. “You want this yahoo?”

“Oh, yeah. I sure do. Let's stick him in the stockade and go get something to eat and drink. Then you can bring me up-to-date on members of the Nelson gang you've found, so I can scratch them off my list.”

“MacCallister ain't no law-dog,” Jed said. “He didn't have no proper authority to arrest me and shackle me like a wild animal and haul me all over the country. I got rights, you know?”

“Shut up, Hudson,” Pat told him. He turned to Jamie. “I just got me a notion, Mac, that a hundred years from now, enforcin' the law is gonna be a real problem.”

“A hundred years from now,” Jamie replied, “what the hell difference will it make to you and me?”

Laughing, Pat took Jamie's arm, and together they walked off to get something to eat.

Jed Hudson was still cussing when a burly sergeant hauled him off to the stockade, slammed the door and locked him in.

* * *

It was mid-summer and hot as Jamie rode into Abilene, Kansas. After stabling his horses, Jamie checked into the Drover's Cottage. He was unaware that the town marshal, James Butler Hickok, better known as Wild Bill, was also staying at the Drover's Cottage. Wild Bill had taken over as city marshal in April of '71, shortly after the death of Thomas Smith, also known as Bear River Smith.

When Jamie checked in, the desk clerk told him, “Wild Bill don't allow no pistols to be toted inside the city limits, Mr. MacCallister.” He looked into the cold eyes of Jamie and quickly added, “But he might make an exception in your case.”

Also in town were Jesse and Frank James, John Wesley Hardin, Ben Thompson, and Phil Coe. The James boys had done Wild Bill a favor back in Missouri, and the marshal allowed the pair to hide out in and around Abilene as long as they caused no trouble.

After a long hot bath, a haircut and shave, his boots blacked, a white shirt laundered and pressed, and his suit aired and ironed, Jamie stuck one .44 behind his sash and took a stroll around the town.

He hadn't gone a block before Wild Bill stepped out of a store and the two men came face-to-face on the boardwalk.

Hickok was tall, but not as tall as Jamie or as heavy. The men howdied, and then Hickok whispered, “Al Stone and Rod Totton usually hit the Alamo Saloon about dark.”

Jamie nodded his head, and that was the only exchange ever known to have occurred between the two men. Hickok walked on and so did Jamie.

Jamie ate an early supper and wandered over to the Alamo Saloon just before dusk. John Wesley Hardin, the volatile and totally unpredictable gunfighter, was sitting at a table near the back, drinking whiskey and playing solitaire. Hardin, a native of Texas, born in Bonham of God-fearing and hard-working parents (his father was a Methodist circuit preacher), held in high esteem the men who fought and died at the Alamo, and held in particularly high regard the legendary Jamie Ian MacCallister.

“They'll be along shortly,” he called from his table. “They've been runnin' their mouths about killin' you. Don't worry about your back, I'll watch it for you.”

Jamie turned and nodded his head in thanks. Hardin resumed his card playing, and Jamie nursed his drink of whiskey.

Hickok saddled up and rode out of town, to visit a lady friend who lived a few miles outside of Abilene. Wild Bill was totally sympathetic with Jamie's manhunt, and wanted to give him all the free rein possible in dealing with Stone and Totton.

Word had gotten to Stone and Totton that Jamie was in town. The two outlaws had no choice in the matter. They had boasted all around town about what they would do if MacCallister ever showed up in Abilene. Now they had to back up their words, or be branded cowards and leave town. The outlaws propped up their courage with whiskey in Ben Thompson's Bull's Head Tavern and, just at dark, headed for the Alamo Saloon.

They walked into the saloon with guns drawn.

“Why, you cowardly bastards! ”John Wesley shouted, upon seeing the men openly heeled.

But Jamie was already moving. He snaked his .44 out of his sash and drilled Al Stone through the heart. Stone fell against Totton and took the bullet meant for Jamie. Jamie stood and took aim and fired. His bullet struck Totton in the chest and knocked the man back against a wall. Totton lifted his second .45, and Jamie fired again, the .44 round striking the outlaw in the belly. Totton slid down the wall, coming to rest on his butt on the floor. His guns slipped from numbed fingers.

“Damn your eyes, MacCallister!” he managed to gasp. “You don't never give a man breathin' room. You just kept on comin'. But you'll meet your match when you brace Judy. Judy will kill you for shore.”

Totton died with his eyes wide open, staring death in the face.

“Will Judy,” John Wesley said. “He's a bad one, Mac. Don't sell him short.”

And that was high praise indeed, coming from John Wesley Hardin, perhaps the fastest gun alive.

Jamie carefully reloaded. He turned to John Wesley. “This Will Judy, you know where he is?”

John Wesley shook his head. “That, I don't know, Mac. But he likes the high country and rides with a no-good name of Tom Brewer. And Brewer ain't no man to take lightly.”

“Nice meeting you, John Wesley,” Jamie said.

“I assure you that pleasure was all mine, Jamie Ian MacCallister.” He lifted his glass of whiskey and said, “Long live the memory of the Alamo and the men who fought and died there.”

“I'll drink to that,” Jamie said, and lifted his glass in salute to bravery and freedom.

Jamie then walked out of the saloon and into the night. John Wesley resumed his lonely game of solitaire.
¹¹

* * *

Fall was blowing cold when Jamie rode into the little two-by-twice town on the Colorado/New Mexico border. He'd picked up the trail of three men nearly six weeks back and had dogged them all the way. They had tried every trick they knew to shake Jamie off their trail . . . nothing had worked.

Sam Woodson, Art Adams, and Ramsey Wicks were at the end of their string and all played out when they hit what was left of the tiny town that would soon vanish into the folklore of western history. It had sprung up just after the Civil War, flourished briefly, and then began to die. Now there were only a saloon, a general store, and a blacksmith/ livery remaining. The other buildings were fast beginning to decay. Soon there would be nothing left. It was never really determined whether the town was located in Colorado or New Mexico. And by the time the last building collapsed in the early 1880s, the town having been abandoned for more than ten years, nobody gave a damn.

The blacksmith looked at Jamie in the fading light and shook his head. “If you be Jamie MacCallister, and I think you are, them hombres you been doggin' is in the saloon. They said for me to tell you they ain't runnin' no more.”

“You build caskets?” Jamie asked.

“Well, yeah.”

“Then build three. You're going to need them.”

The smithy stared in silence as Jamie took a rag and wiped the dust from his sawed-off, then broke it open and loaded it up.

“Ever' time I pick up a newspaper, they's something about you in it,” the smithy broke his silence. “Six months old, a year old, two weeks old, it don't make no difference, you and your damn manhunt is in all of them. Do you even know how many men you've killed, MacCallister?”

“You mean, of the Nelson gang?”

“Yes.”

“Thirty-nine, to date. I think. It'll soon be forty-two.”

The smithy was shocked. He stood with his mouth agape for a moment, then shook his head and whispered, “Thirty-nine souls you've sent wingin'.”

“Sent winging right straight to hell,” Jamie said, his voice cold. He wiped off his Colts, working the action, then checked the loads, filling up the sixth chamber on each Colt, and finally snapped closed the cylinders and slipped the pistols back into leather.

“How old are you, Jamie MacCallister?” the smithy asked.

“Sixty-one, I believe. I've never been real sure about that.”

“You don't look it. 'Ceptin' maybe the eyes.”

Jamie turned to go.

“What do you want done with your horses and gear if you don't come back for them?”

Jamie paused and looked at the man. “Instructions are in my saddlebags.”

“I would wish you luck, 'ceptin' I don't believe in what you're doin'.”

“I don't believe in luck,” Jamie told him. He walked across the street and pushed over the batwings, stepping into the saloon.