Talons of Eagles (23 page)

“Page . . . ?”

“Yes, Mommy?”

“Have you ever given any thought to living in Colorado?”

“Why . . . yes. As a matter of fact, James and I have discussed it. Would you mind terribly?”

“Well, of course I would miss you, dear.” About as much as a toothache. “But I think a proper lady must go where her husband wishes. Oh, Page, it would be a grand adventure for you.”

“Oh, Mommy! James will be thrilled!”

Not nearly as much as I will. Anne smiled sweetly at her daughter.

Kate sat in her chair in the living room of the home in shocked silence for a few moments. Jamie got up and went to the kitchen, stoking up the stove, and putting on fresh water for coffee. Then he stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at his wife.

“Maybe there is some mistake,” Kate finally said. “Surely there is more than one family named Woodville in the Richmond area?”

“With a daughter named Page, who has black hair and black eyes and whose mother is named Anne, who lives on a plantation called Ravenswood?”

“You're right, of course,” Kate said. “Well! This is somewhat of a problem. Not the fact that he is planning to marry a young lady with some Negro blood in her veins; but does he know about the girl's lineage?”

“Not likely, Kate. It's very doubtful the girl knows.”

“So what do we do about it?”

Jamie shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Nothing. What can we do?”

Kate stood up and walked to a window, looking out toward the cemetery, her eyes on the graves of Moses and Liza. The Negro couple had been very nearly middle-aged when Kate and Jamie had first met them, back in the Big Thicket country of East Texas. They had lived a good long life. Liza had died within a few weeks of her husband. Their children, Jed and Sally, still lived and worked in the valley; they were both grandparents.

“Moses would have known what to do,” Kate said. “I miss them both.”

Jamie came to stand beside his wife, his gaze following his wife's eyes. Titus had died while Jamie was off in the war, but he had been buried Indian fashion, high up in the mountains. His widow, Moon Woman, and their children had gone back to their tribe. Jamie had not seen any of them in years. After Robert's death, his widow had taken their children, all of whom were grown, and vanished without a trace.

“Jed and Sally have no idea what happened to Anne and Roscoe,” Jamie said. “The past is dead and, in most cases, buried. All we can do is hope for the best for James William and Page.”

“What are the chances of her delivering . . . well, you know?”

“I don't know, Kate. I'd say very slim. But I'm no doctor.”

Jamie and Kate fixed their coffee and returned to their chairs on the front porch.

Jamie looked up the street and spotted a cotton-headed little boy running barefoot toward the house. He knew it was one of his grandsons or great-grandsons, but damned if he could remember which son or daughter or grandson or granddaughter the boy belonged to. Kate would know, but he wasn't about to ask her; every time he did she got a big laugh out of it and made some sarcastic comment about his failing memory. Jamie knew his memory was just as good as it was twenty years back; it was just that women seemed to have a knack for remembering birth dates and names and the like.

“Grandpa!” the boy hollered. “Men's a comin'. Two of them. Pa says it's somebody called Preacher.”

“Well, I'll be damned!” Jamie said. He had not seen Preacher since before the war.

Preacher looked like death warmed over; but Jamie knew that the man's looks were very deceptive. Preacher was still a very dangerous and very quick man on the shoot or with a knife. Jamie cut his eyes to the young man riding with the famed mountain man. A gun-slick if Jamie had ever seen one. Young, too. Maybe twenty at the most. Wore two guns, one of them butt forward and high up on his left side.

“Howdy, you old reprobate!” Jamie called to Preacher. “Light and sit.”

“Howdy, there, Colonel!” Preacher hollered. “Miss Kate. You still puttin' up with this mangy, beat-up ol' coot?”

“I've sort of gotten used to him after forty-five years,” Kate replied, as Preacher and the young man swung down from their saddles.

“This here is my pard,” Preacher said. “He ain't dry behind the ears yet, but he's a good boy. He'll do to ride the river with. Name's Jensen. I call him Smoke.”

“You hungry?” Kate asked.

“Ain't I always. But me and your man got to palaver first. Then we'll eat. Let's us take a walk, Bear Killer. Smoke, you hep Miss Kate.”

Falcon rode up, and he and Jensen sized each other up very quickly. Both had the stamp of gunfighter on them. Falcon was a good eight or ten years older than young Jensen. Kate introduced them.

“Howdy,” Falcon said.

“Howdy,” Jensen said.

“Heard of you,” Falcon said.

“Heard of you,” Jensen said.

“So far that's the most borin' conversation I ever did hear,” Preacher remarked. “Give 'em a year or two and they might say somethin' worth hearin'. Come on, ol' hoss. We got to talk.”

On the way to Louie's saloon, Preacher said, “Do you recall a run-in you had with some damned Easterner name of Grover Ellis?”

Jamie thought about that. “Yes. I remember him. Slightly. But it wasn't much of a run-in. I told him to git and he got. Why?”

“Well, he got all right. What he got was kilt over yonder on the west side of Bearpaw. But he lived long enough to tell one of his boys that it was you who done him in and then lifted his poke.”

“That's nonsense, Preacher!”

“Oh, I know that. But Ellis come from West Virginee—feudin' and fussin' and fightin' folks. He's got a whole passel of kin on the way out here to avenge him.”

“Damn!” Jamie said. “How much time do I have?”

“Oh, couple of weeks, I reckon. Maybe three. They was provisionin' up at Fort Dodge last week and a pard of mine heared them talkin'. He rode hard to git to my camp with the news. Me and Smoke yonder come over this way to hep out.”

“How many men in the group?”

“Not many—twenty—five or thirty, is all. You take five or six. I'll take five or six. Smoke'll take five or six. And Falcon can have the rest. There won't be much to it.”

Jamie laughed at that. “Preacher, I don't know whether you've noticed this or not, but, ol' hoss, we're not as young as we used to be.”

“I have noticed that I ain't quite as spry as I used to be, Bear Killer. Howsomever, Smoke'll take up the slack for me, and Falcon can take up the slack for you—I got it all figured out. What we'll do is just ambush 'em over near Well's Crick and just blow 'em out of their goddamn saddles. Leave 'em for the buzzards.”

Jamie had to chuckle at Preacher's words. In the vernacular of the West, Preacher was a very bad man to fool with. And Jamie had heard of Smoke Jensen. The young man was supposed to be the fastest gun west of the Mississippi River.

They entered Louie's saloon, and Jamie spoke to one of Louie's boys, who was tending to the bar. Louie's wife ran the little eating place that was partitioned off, in case the bar talk got rough, which it seldom did.

“Whiskey for me, boy,” Preacher said. “And a beer for the colonel.”

Taking chairs at a table, Jamie asked, “Where is Audie and his partner?”

“Lobo? Well, Lobo is probably still holed up in a cave like a damn bear, and Audie done got hisself a whole crate of books. The collected works of Shakespeare, I think they is. He's been readin' to them goddamn heathen Blackfeet all winter. I stayed for about a week, but me and them Blackfeet just don't gee-haw. But they like Audie. They 'bout half skirred of the little bastard; think he's a god of some sort. 'Sides, 'bout a week of him forsooken and harkin' and lo yon maiden in the medder and the like was all I could take. That Shakespeare feller was a strange one, you ask me.”

Jamie grinned at the mountain man. Preacher was probably in his late sixties or early seventies, still spry and as full of crap as he ever was. “Where'd you hook up with young Jensen?”

“Kansas. Him and his pa was headin' west. His pa had bad lungs. I kinda took to the lad. Say! I forgot. They was a feller askin' 'bout you last year up north of here in one of them flyby-night minin' towns. He never did mention his name, but he was a regular gentleman, he was. All of us could tell it. Soft-spoken and all. Said he knowed you durin' the war. He's got him a place up to Goldtown.”

“I know where that is. What else did this fellow say?”

“Said he first seen you sitting under a tree by the side of the road readin' a newspaper. Somebody in the place called him Cord, I think.”

“Cord could be Cort,” Jamie said. “I thought he was dead.”

“Well, he ain't. And he's lightnin' fast with them guns of hisn. He's a gambler, and a damn good one, too. I think he's kinda funny—if you know what I mean—but he shore ain't no man to mess with. I think he's a man ridin' a panther, ol' hoss. He's on the prod with a hair-trigger temper and the gun skill to back it all up. He drinks a lot, and when he drinks, he's twicest as dangerous.”

“Do me a favor, Preacher?”

“All you got to do is ask.”

“You and Jensen stay here and help protect the town against Ellis' kin, should they come here after me. It's very important that I see this Cord person.”

“Consider it done, Bear Killer.”

* * *

“You think this Cord person is Anne's husband?” Kate asked, as Jamie was putting together a few things.

“Yes. And he needs to know what is happening. Not that he can do anything about it, but as the girl's father, he has a right to know.”

“You be careful, Jamie. Discounting Ellis, there are still a lot of people out there who would like to make a reputation by killing you.”

Jamie smiled at her. “I'm like an old wolf, honey. What I've lost in spryness I've gained in deviousness. I'll be back.”

Jamie saddled up one of Horse's distant offspring and rode out. Lightning was a dusty color, with a jagged white streak running down from the top of his head to near his nose, hence his name. If anything, Lightning was meaner than Horse and a hand or two taller. Lightning had the disposition of an angry puma around anyone other than Jamie; but with Jamie, he was as gentle as a pup.

Lightning started to bow his back when Jamie swung into the saddle. “Don't,” Jamie said, and the monster horse settled right down.

“Stay close,” Preacher told Smoke. “I'll be circlin' around up in the high country. And stay shut of these fillies,” he added with a grin. “I seen 'em swishin' around and battin' their eyes at you.”

Falcon and Smoke hit it off about as well as two lone wolves, but each respected the other's prowess with a pistol so they were at least civil with each other.

“Be a weddin' here this summer,” Falcon told Smoke. “I'm gettin' hitched. If you're around, you're invited.”

“Thank you,” Smoke said.

“Think nothin' of it.”

With that, Falcon went to one end of the town and Smoke went to the other.

Kate was amused at the antics of the two, but said nothing.

“Like two roosters struttin' around,” Preacher said. “They'll be friends 'fore long. But for now, they're just circlin' one another.”

Goldtown was a good four days' ride from MacCallister's Valley. Before Jamie entered the boom town, he circled it, stopping often to dismount and look it over through field glasses. On his second day of observation from high up, Jamie spotted Cort Woodville. The man was leaning up against a porch support post in front of a saloon, smoking a cheroot. He was neatly dressed in a pale gray Confederate cavalryman's hat—complete with gold braid—black suit, fancy vest, with white shirt and string tie. He wore two guns, tied down low. Cort had lost all signs of innocence in his face. Even from afar, Jamie could see that the man's expression was hard and unyielding.

Jamie entered the boom town from the rear, stabling his horse at the edge of town. Carrying his rifle, bed roll, and saddlebags, Jamie checked into the town's best hotel (which was quite fancy for the time) and cleaned up, ordering a hot bath and sending his boots down to have them blacked. He carefully shaved and dressed in a dark suit, then went out to eat. It was late afternoon when he pushed open the batwings to the Golden Rooster saloon and walked to the bar.

Many of the men in the place knew who he was and tensed, for it had been a few years since Jamie had strayed from his valley, and they all wondered what was up. Although Jamie was no longer anywhere near a young man, he still carried himself erect, and anyone with a knowing eye could see that he was still powerful and not a man to trifle with. Those big Colts tied down low were a dead giveaway.

But there were those in the place who did not know Jamie Ian MacCallister—men recently arrived from the East, men who still carried grudges spawned from the Civil War—and they took umbrage at the pale gray Confederate cavalryman's hat Jamie had carefully brought with him, packed in a leather case.

Across the room, sitting by himself at a table, his back to a wall and playing solitaire, Cort Woodville smiled when Jamie strolled in. The smile was more than just seeing a trusted old friend, but at the hat Jamie wore. Things could get very interesting very quickly, Cort thought.

“Whiskey,” Jamie ordered, then turned to face the crowd, the glass held in his left hand.

Jamie's hair was nearly all gray now, and the lines in his tanned and rugged face had deepened.

“Another goddamn Johnny Reb.” A man spat the words out, contempt dripping from his mouth.

“Yeah,” another said. “And an old bastard at that. Hey, gramps! You bes' be gettin' on back to your rockin' chair 'fore someone snatches that traitor hat offen your old head and makes you eat it.”

Cort smiled and laid the deck of cards aside, both hands dropping beneath the table and loosening the thongs to his six-guns. He had seen when Jamie walked in that his guns were loose in their holsters.