Dreams of Eagles (14 page)

“Who's hurt?” Jamie shouted. “Calm down and let's see to our people.” He looked over at Ellen Kathleen. She was standing beside Bill, both of them pale-faced and shaken. “You two all right?” Jamie asked.

They nodded their heads.

“Bill, see to your parents. Ellen Kathleen, help your ma.”

“Poppa!” Ellen Kathleen cried. “Linda, she's . . .”

“I know. Do what I told you.”

Jamie looked at his oldest son. Jamie Ian had ripped off the high collar and let it fall to the ground. The tie followed that. The son looked at the father and the expression in the young man's eyes was a terrible thing to behold. The young man turned and walked into his parents' cabin, closing the door behind him. Jamie went to Kate and knelt down beside her, forcing her hands from Linda and pulling her to her feet. He held her for a moment while Kate wept, and then she pulled away and composed herself.

“I'll see to Anne,” she said numbly, and Jamie nodded.

“I'll make a coffin,” Swede said gently. “I'll just do that right now.”

“I'll go fetch young Jamie's horse,” Silver Wolf said. “He'll be ridin' the black he favors, won't he?”

“Yes,” Jamie said.

“What the hell do you mean, 'he'll be riding the black'?” Kate screamed.

“Be quiet, Kate,” the old Silver Wolf told her. “Just be quiet. He's a MacCallister. He's got the blood of mystics from the Highlands in his veins. He'll do what has to be done. And there is naught you nor anyone else can do to stop him. If you dinna know that now, you never will. Go on with what you're doin'. Do you help get the lassie ready for the earth.”

The sounds of sawing and hammering reached the still-stunned gathering.

“I'll go help the Swede,” Juan said.

“Me, too,” Titus said.

Jamie Ian stepped out of the cabin. He was dressed in buckskins and carried two rifles, one in each hand. He had two pistols stuck down behind his belt.

“No!” his mother screamed.

Jamie Ian looked at her and said, “Leave me be, Ma. You know I've got to do it.”

“After we've committed Linda to the ground,” Jamie said softly, but with tempered steel behind his words.

“Of course, Pa,” the young man replied, his eyes dry and his voice hard.

Before the coffin was completed, Silver Wolf returned, leading two horses, Jamie Ian's big black and a pack horse with the headless body of Wiley Harper draped over its back.

Anne took one look at the bloody remains of her husband and went into a screaming rage. It took William Haywood, Daniel Noble, and Eb French to hold the woman down until she had calmed.

Titus started on another coffin.

Jamie and Sam lifted the body of Linda and gently placed her in the narrow coffin, hands folded across her chest. Jamie Ian sat on the porch of the newly built cabin that he would never share with Linda and said nothing.

The holes dug in the summer earth and the caskets sealed and lowered, William Haywood conducted the short service. Jamie Ian had not moved from his place on the porch.

While the soft earth gently fell on the twin caskets, Jamie Ian walked by his mother's side and kissed her on the cheek. Kate's face seemed to be set in stone. He shook hands with his dad and then went to his horse and swung into the saddle. The young man rode off without looking back. He paused only briefly, to take the scalps of the raiders he had killed and to tie them onto the black's mane.

Kate looked at Jamie. “You not going with him?”

“He didn't ask me to.”

“He wants no help,” Jamie's Grandpa said. “This is something he has to do alone.”

“Is that right?” Kate asked, her words like chipped ice. She walked to the cabin and entered, closing the door, momentarily shutting out the tragic events of the day.

Till hell freezes over.

—
Anonymous

To say that Kate was highly irritated would be rather like saying boiling water is hot. But Jamie had seen her angry before and knew what to do: stay the hell out of her way until she cooled down.

He helped drag the bodies of the dead raiders to Outlaw Acres and bury them . . . without benefit of casket. Reverend Haywood flatly refused to read over their graves, so the dead attackers, several of them minus their scalps, were committed to the earth without any ceremony.

Jamie had seen his Grandpa leave the settlement, dressed in his trailworn buckskins. He would follow Ian from a safe distance, watching the boy's back. Young Ian was good but still had a lot to learn. The old Silver Wolf would be his unseen ghost until he did learn.

Jamie spent part of the rest of that day helping to round up the horses and repairing the corral. Then he closed up the cabin that had been built for his son and bride. Just as he was shuttering the windows, Kate appeared at his side with a sandwich and a glass of cool milk. Together, they sat down on the porch and Jamie ate.

“When do you suppose Ian will be back?” Kate asked.

“When he's tracked them all down and killed them.”

“He's awfully young.”

“Not as young as we were, Kate.”

“The valley will never be the same.”

“No. It won't.”

“I've written what happened in the Bible, Jamie.”

“Good.”

“I spoke with the other women. Most of the food we had prepared for the wedding feast was saved. We'll all have an early supper on the grounds late this afternoon.”

“I think that's a fine idea, Kate. We must not forget that Ellen Kathleen and Bill still have their honeymoon ahead of them.”

“They'll be left alone,” Kate said firmly. “Moon Woman and She Who Watches have gone into the hills to build a hogan for them so they can be alone. Titus and Robert went with them to help.”

“That's good.”

Both of them sat on the porch of Ian's cabin, their eyes on the fresh mounds of earth in the community cemetery.

Kate said, “Come next late March I would imagine that we'll be grandparents, Jamie.”

“If Ellen Kathleen is anything like you we sure will be,” Jamie said straight-faced.

Kate fixed him with a look that would melt ice. Then the hotness faded as she watched the smile he could not contain play around his lips. She poked him in the ribs so hard it brought a grunt from Jamie. “And I suppose you had nothing to do with it?”

“Oh, I contributed a mite, I reckon.”

“Haw! One more comment like that, and I'll suggest that this would be a nice night for you to sleep outside.”

“It might rain.”

“Then you'd get wet, wouldn't you?” Kate said sweetly, and left the porch to join the other women.

* * *

The raid cast a pallor over the settlement for a time, but as the summer wore on, the bloody memories of that awful day began to gradually diminish and everyone resumed their normal routine.

“Life must go on,” Reverend Haywood preached one Sunday morning. It was one of the rare Sundays that Jamie elected to attend church. Reverend Haywood was always very pleased when Jamie attended his services, even though he knew that Jamie was doing it merely to please Kate and also to help insure that the children had a good church foundation.

When the first cold winds began to blow through the valley, the settlers were ready for winter. The crops were in, the hay stacked for the cattle, and the barns full. And there had been no word from or about Jamie Ian. But all that was about to change.

* * *

The front door to the trading post was pushed open, and the tall stranger had to duck his head to enter. The trappers and drifters all stopped their talking and card playing to look up as the cold winds blew in behind the young man.

“Shut that damn door, you fool!” one said. “Was ye raised in a barn?”

“No,” the tall young man said. “But since your voice bears a striking resemblance to a jackass braying, I would suspect you were.”

The others in the trading post burst out in good-natured laughter as the lout's face reddened. One of the trappers narrowed his eyes as his gaze followed the young man to a corner table. It couldn't be, he thought. The lad is far too young. But my God, the resemblance is striking.

“Some food, please, sir,” the tall blonde-haired stranger said. “And a pot of coffee.”

“Oh, please, sir!” the loudmouthed lout mimicked sarcastically. “My, my, ain't he the po-lite one now. I bet he's got ruffles on his underwear.”

“Shut up, Flooky,” the trapper whose eyes had followed Ian said. “Afore your ass overloads your mouth.”

Ian said nothing, just tore off a huge hunk of bread and fell to eating the good-smelling stew that was placed before him, along with a pot of strong coffee.

“I don't take that kind of talk from no pup!” the man called Flooky said. “Hey, you!” he shouted. “Kid! Look at me, boy!”

Ian continued to concentrate on his stew, for he was hungry, having run completely out of supplies almost a week before, and had been living on rabbits, and there is not much fat on a rabbit. A man needs fat to help survive in the dead of winter. He ignored the man called Flooky.

“Goddamn you, boy!” Flooky shouted, rising from his chair. “Is ye deef as well as stupid?”

Ian looked up, those amazingly pale blue eyes as cold as death. “Shut up,” was all he said. Then he returned to the business of eating.

Flooky sat back down hard in the leather-strapped chair, his mouth open in amazement. Nobody talked to him that way, especially some damn kid. He was momentarily speechless.

Several of the trappers in the room, and also the owner of the trading post, had put together who this young man was, and to a man, they were smiling. No decent man liked Flooky, for he was a borderline ruffian and a notorious bully. He was also suspected of being a thief, albeit a clever one, since he had never been caught at it.

Ian polished off that bowl of stew and the counterman was johnny-on-the-spot with the pot, ladling him another heaping bowl. “It's very good,” Ian said.

“Thanks, young feller. I made it myself.”

“I'd match it up with anyone's.” He smiled. “Except my mother's cooking.”

The cook smiled. “Can't no one beat mama's cookin', that's for shore.”

“Ain't that sweet?” Flooky sneered. “He misses his mama.”

“I miss my mama, too,” a burly trapper said softly. “A whole bunch. You want to make something out of that, Flooky?”

Flooky had nothing to say to the trapper. He dropped his gaze and studied his cup of whiskey. Big Jim Williams was no man to play deadly games with.

Big Jim stood up and carried his jug and cup with him over to Ian's table. “You mind some company, son?”

“Not at all, sir. Please sit down.”

“Thankee kindly.” Big Jim sat and studied Ian for a moment. “You be a MacCallister, right?”

“Yes, sir. Jamie is my father and Silver Wolf my great-grandfather.

“Thought so. I been knowin' the old man for forty years. Ain't seen him in a spell.”

“He's about a day behind me,” Ian said with a smile. “Birddoggin' my backtrail. He thinks I don't know it. So if you see him, don't let on.”

Big Jim chuckled. “You on the prod, boy?”

Briefly, Ian explained what had happened that dreadful day back in the valley. Big Jim grunted and shook his head. “I don't blame you. But is you plannin' on takin' on the whole damn gang all by your lonesome?”

“Why . . . yes,” Ian replied. “It's just one gang, isn't it?”

Big Jim smiled. “Flooky's a bad one, boy.”

“Yes, I 'spect he is.”

“You been in many fights?”

“A few. My pa taught me how to fight.”

“Flooky ain't your pa, boy.”

“Thank God for small favors.” Ian finished his stew and sopped out the bowl with the last bit of bread. He refilled his coffee cup and sat back in the chair.

Flooky sat at his table and grew madder by the moment.

Big Jim sat across from Jamie Ian and studied the young man. Real calm, Big Jim concluded. He's very sure of himself. Then it came to Big Jim Williams: Jamie Ian wasn't going to mix it up with Flooky. He was going to kill him.

“Be back,” Big Jim said, pushing away from the rough hewn table and walking over to Flooky. He sat down and spoke in low tones. “Leave the lad alone, Flooky. He's a bad one. He's on the prod and he ain't gonna take a lot of crap from you. As a matter of fact, he ain't gonna take
any
crap from you or anybody else. Leave him be and let him go his own way.”

“That kid sassed me,” Flooky said. “I'll not take lip from no kid.”

“You been warned,” Big Jim said. “Where's your next of kin, Flooky.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

Flooky cursed in a low voice. “All I aim to do is slap him around some, Jim.”

Big Jim shook his head. “No, you ain't gonna do nothin' of the kind. When you draw back agin this one, he's gonna kill you.”

“When Hell freezes over,” Flooky said, and stood up. He walked across the room and stopped about ten feet from Ian, who was standing with his back to the man, buying supplies and stacking them on the counter. “Turn around and take your whuppin', boy,” Flooky said.

Ian turned his head and looked at the man. “Go to hell.”

Flooky cursed and jumped at Ian. Ian sidestepped and hit the man in the face with a fifty-foot length of coiled rope. The rope was new and stiff and made a terrible weapon. Ian smashed the man in the face again and again with the new rope, the power behind the blows awesome. He beat Flooky to the floor and continued smashing his head with the rope until Flooky was unconscious, lying on the boards in his own blood.

Ian tossed the rope back on the counter and said, “Some beans and flour and salt, too, please.”

The other men in the room made no move to assist Flooky.

Big Jim started the low whisper. “That's Jamie MacCallister's boy, Ian.”

“Damn!” a trapper said. “I see the family in him now.”

Before leaving the valley, Jamie had given his son a small leather sack of cash money, and another sack of gold dust and nuggets. Ian paid for his supplies with coins and picked up the canvas bag he had brought in and packed full. He looked once at Flooky, still unconscious on the floor. Ian lifted his eyes and met the silent gaze of every man in the room.

“I didn't come in here looking for trouble. If this man follows me, seeking vengeance, I'll give him a proper burial as best I can.” Ian walked out into the cold of Oregon winter. He closed the door behind him.

For a moment, no one spoke. Finally, a bearded trapper said, “That boy'll do to ride the river with.”

“Aye,” another one said. “He's got a lot of Old Mac in him. 'Ceptin' Old Mac would have cut Flooky from eyeballs to belly-button.”

Briefly, Big Jim explained why Ian was on the prod.

To a man, the crowd all shook their heads in disgust and understanding.

Flooky groaned and sat up on the floor, his face torn and bruised from the beating with the rope. He put his hands to his face and looked at the bloody palms and cursed, long and loud. He struggled to his boots and staggered to the counter, leaning heavily against it. “A pan of hot water,” he ordered. “And some cloths to bathe my face.” One eye was swollen shut and his lips were raw and puffy.

“I'll kill that kid!” Flooky swore.

“Leave him be,” a trapper warned. “That's Jamie MacCallister's boy.”

“That don't spell nothin' to me,” Flooky said, bathing his badly beaten face with the hot, wet cloth. “I ain't never seen none of Jamie MacCallister's graveyards.”

“I have,” Big Jim Williams said. “I've seen them from Ohio to Colorado.”

Flooky said nothing; he wasn't about to call Big Jim a liar.

A trapper who had followed Ian outside returned in time to catch the last few words. “The lad's got scalps tied to his horse's mane. Three of them that I seen. That there's a boy to leave alone.”

“Injun scalps,” Flooky said. “Big deal.”

“White men's scalps,” the trapper said.

“Shit!” Flooky said. “Give me some whiskey to dab on these cuts. And some beans and flour and coffee. I'm a fixin' to take me a scalp of my own—a blonde one.”

“You'll not do it,” yet another trapper warned. “Leave him be, Flooky. He's a bad one.”

Flooky cursed the man and jerked up the bag of supplies. He staggered out of the trading post and stumbled toward the stable for his horse.

“If anybody's got anything they want to say to Flooky, they better do it now,” Big Jim said. “'Cause you'll not see him no more after this day.”

“Well, he wasn't much good no way,” a grizzled old mountain man said. “Give me a bowl of that stew, Morris. I worked up a hunger watchin' MacCallister use that rope.”

“There he goes,” the cook said, peeping out through a crack in the shutters. “Flooky's gone after the lad.”

“His hoss'll be back in a day or two. Pretty good hoss.”

“Where's that stew?” the old mountain man said.