Talons of Eagles (27 page)

Jamie reached down and lifted Kate off the ground, kissing her soundly. “I'll be back,” he said.

“You better,” Kate said, as Jamie lowered her to the ground. “If you don't, I'll never forgive you.”

Hannah had ridden out to the edge of town. She sat her horse and waited.

“This ain't right, Pa,” Jamie Ian protested. “Hannah's got kin and friends here. She can't just ride off to die. She ain't an Indian.”

“That's where you're dead wrong, boy,” Jamie told his oldest son. “We both have as much Indian in us as we do white.” Jamie nodded at his family, plopped his old hat on his head, and rode off.

“I don't reckon I will ever understand Pa,” Falcon said.

“Get the town ready for a fight,” Kate said, her voice sharp and commanding. “Right now!”

The crowd scattered, and Kate stood for a time alone on the long front porch. She stood there until her man could no longer be seen. Then she walked into the house, into her kitchen, and started rolling out dough for bread. When that was done and the dough laid out to rise, Kate locked the front door and sat down in her chair and had herself a good cry.

Jamie rode off toward the east, with Hannah right beside him. The horse she rode was old, like Hannah, and Hannah was comfortable with the animal. Jamie knew why she chose that horse: horse and rider would die together. Jamie would bury them Indian fashion where they fell, with the horse's tail tied to the tall burial platform and the body of the animal under the platform . . . if he was alive to do that.

Hannah was in her seventies, but she could still ride like the wind. She hummed as they rode; other times she wore a faint smile on her lips. Jamie would occasionally glance over at her, and their eyes would meet, a silent understanding passing between them. Rarely did they speak, and when they did, it was always in Shawnee.

Once, Hannah broke the long silence by saying, “It is good, this thing we do.”

“Yes. I have felt the years lifting off of me, flying away like eagles.”

“I, too.”

“Are you weary of this life, Quiet Woman?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I have birthed my children and seen them grow into fine men and women. I have loved my man with all my heart, and I wish to be with him again. Those who do not understand the Indian way would not understand that, would they?”

“Probably not. Most of them anyway. I was raised in the church back in Ohio Territory; I have vague memories of it. But I can't warm to it now. It's too harsh for my liking.”

“Do you ever think of the life after this one?”

“I didn't used to. But I do now.” He pointed. “We'll camp up ahead. I know a good spot.”

* * *

The man who now called himself Cord Woodson had won a sizeable pot from some miners and was now sipping whiskey and playing solitaire when a couple of dusty travelers walked into the saloon and bellied up to the long bar. They ordered whiskey with a beer chaser, and after drinking the first mug down to knock the dust from their throats, they took another full mug of beer and the bottle of whiskey over to a table and sat down.

“There's gonna be some big doin's down to that old boom town south of here, boys,” one of the riders said. “Some tin soldier name of Aaron Layfield has got him a colonel's commission from the U.S. government to take care of the Indian problem here in Colorado. But before he does that, he gonna clean Jamie MacCallister's clock, so he says.”

Cord's eyes turned as cold as the North Sea. He laid down the deck of cards and listened.

“Seems as though Jamie has some old warrants out on him. Personal, I don't think they're worth the paper they're writ on, but until some high-up muckedy muck judge in Washington say they ain't no good, Jamie's got him a fight on his hands. Me and my pard here is fixin' to ride down that way and get us a good seat up in the hills. We both got field glasses, and we intend to see what Jamie does up agin a couple of hundred men.”

“A couple of hundred men?” Someone tossed out the question. “Did you say a couple of
hundred
men?”

“That's right. But that ain't all. They's another group of manhunters comin' up behind the
first
bunch. Maybe a day or two behind them. I'm tellin' you, boys. This here is shapin' up to be the grandest fight since Bull Run. An' I ain't about to miss it.” He looked at his partner. “Come on, Pete. Drink up and let's get them supplies and get gone. We want to find us a good and safe spot to eyeball this fracas.”

The two riders finished off their second beer, grabbed the bottle of whiskey and stood up.

“Wait a minute!” a miner said. “Just hold on. Where did you say this fight was gonna be?”

“Well, I don't rightly know for shore,” the second rider holding the bottle of whiskey said. “But the logical place, if you look at a map, would be that no-name town about fifty miles south of here. You know, where the vein played out after about six or seven months.”

“Yeah. They had just started callin' that place Bell City. Is that the place?”

“That's the place.”

“But why there?” another asked.

The first rider shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know. But that's where everyone I jawed with says it's gonna take place. Don't ask me why.”

Several men rushed outside right behind the two riders, scurrying about to get supplies. Cord sat for a moment, idly shuffling the cards. Then he smiled, tossed the deck on the table, and stood up.

“You aren't leavin', are you, Mister Woodson?” one of the bartenders asked. “Don't forget your card game at four o'clock.”

“I won't be able to make that game, Clarence,” Cord said. “I just remembered I have an appointment.” He paused by the batwings, his face a study. “Clarence, should I not return, you can have all my clothing and other personal items.”

“Say what?” the bartender asked.

“We're about the same size, so they should fit you well.”

“Why . . . thank you kindly, sir. But why would you not return, Mister Woodson?”

“Oh,” Cord said with a smile, “call it a hunch. Just say I played out my hand.” He laughed. “Yes. That's a good one.” Laughing, Cord shoved open the batwings and stepped out onto the boardwalk.

* * *

Preacher and Smoke Jensen were just settling down to coffee, stew and pan bread when a voice called out, hailing their camp. “I'm plumb friendly, boys. And that stew do set my mouth to salivatin'. I got some canned peaches that'd go right well with that stew.”

“So come on in, providin' peaches is all you got in your hands,” Preacher called into the gathering twilight. “I'd shore hate to kill a man by mistake. Why, hell, I'd probably fret about that the rest of the night. Might keep me awake, and I'm a man who enjoys his sleep.”

Smoke pointed to Preacher and then to a spot by the fire. “I'm Smoke and that's Preacher. Stew will be ready in a few minutes. Sit.”

The man sat—Cautiously, for he knew the reputations of both Preacher and the young gunfighter called Smoke. And they were both quick on the shoot.

“Coffee's ready,” Preacher said. “Providin' you got a cup.”

“I do have that,” the man said. “They call me Tin-Pan. You boys heard the news?”

“What news?” Smoke asked, putting those cold young/old eyes on the stranger.

“You know where Bell City is?”

“I know where ever' rock is in Colorado,” Preacher said. “I know ever' spring, ever' crick, ever' tree, and ever' valley. Course I know where that is. What about it?”

“Gonna be a big shoot-out there, so I hear. They's about six or seven hundred men comin' in from the east to kill Jamie Ian MacCallister.”

“You don't say?” Preacher filled the man's cup. “Why would they want to be doin' that?”

“Don't rightly know. Way it was told to me, it has somethin' to do with the war. Some sort of a grudge.”

“Bell City, hey?” Preacher asked.

“Yep. Folks is comin' in from all over to get them a good seat. But not me. I don't want to be nowheres around when that much lead starts flyin'.”

“Bell City isn't that far from here,” Smoke said.

“That's right, boy,” Preacher replied. “It shore ain't.”

“Ain't you a pard of MacCallister?” Tin-Pan asked.

“Been knowin' the man for over forty years. He's a real nice feller, Jamie is.”

“When is this fight supposed to take place?” Smoke asked.

“ 'Bout four days from now, I heard.”

“Ummm,” Preacher said. He cut his eyes to Smoke Jensen, and they both smiled.

* * *

The old mountain man and scout called Sparks (a distant relative of Captain Sparks from Texas, who had ridden with Jamie's Marauders during the war) sat by his fire in the high-up and mulled over the rumor he had just heard from some miners.

“ 'Bout a thousand or so men all comin' together down near Bell City to kill Jamie MacCallister,” they had told him.

“A
thousand
men?” Sparks had questioned.

“That's what we heard.”

“Yeah,” another miner spoke up. “I reckon this is the end for Jamie Ian MacCallister.”

“I wouldn't count on that,” Sparks replied.

“They's some old woman ridin' with MacCallister,” the third man in the party said. “A white woman totin' a rifle, and she's 'pposed to be all dressed up like an Injun.” He shook his head and poured another cup of coffee. “The whole thing sounds like a made-up story to me.”

Huddled by his tiny fire, Sparks decided he'd pull out at dawn and just take him a little ride down toward Bell City. There just might be some truth in what the miners said.

* * *

“Git your possibles together, you little shrimp,” Lobo told Audie. “And leave them goddamn Shakyspear books behind. We got some ridin' to do.”

“I am quite comfortable here,” the little man said. “Why should I leave such restful and untroubled surroundings to go wandering off with the disreputable likes of you?”

“ 'Cause we been wanderin' off together for near 'bouts forty goddamn years, you hard-headed field mouse!”

Audie stared up at the huge old mountain man. “Something is terribly wrong, Lobo. What is it?”

Lobo told him.

Audie stood up, all four feet of him.
“Thousands
of men coming after Jamie?”

“That's what I heared.”

“I shall be but a moment, you prehistoric throwback. During the interim, you may saddle my mount for me.”

“Is there anything else you'd like for me to do for you, you little turd?”

“Would you consider bathing?”

“I took a bath last month!”

“It was just a thought, a fleeting hope. Forget it. Stay downwind.”

* * *

An old Nez Perce warrior called Night Stalker heard the rumors about the men coming to kill Jamie MacCallister. Back in '43, he had played a good trick on Preacher and Sparks and Jamie, the story was still told around the camp fires about how he had fooled the men into thinking he was a Sasquatch.
⁸

Night Stalker pointed his horse's head toward the old now- deserted town of Bell City. A good friend was a friend forever, and Jamie MacCallister was a good friend. The Nez Perce had long called Jamie Brother of the Wolf.

A few miles to the south, an aging Cheyenne war chief called Dark Hand had also heard the news and was traveling toward the old town. Dark Hand was dying and he knew it. His belly was on fire, and there was something growing there that wasn't supposed to be. This would be a fine way to end his days in this life and travel the starry path to his other life. He would die with much glory, and besides, he would be helping an old friend. Dark Hand smiled. Life was good. He just hoped he could get there before the pain in his belly grew intolerable. He patted his horse's neck.

“Carry me there, old friend. We have a better life waiting for us.”

* * *

Jamie and Hannah topped the rise and reined up, looking down at the deserted town that lay below them in a narrow valley. There was one way in and one way out, the road running right through the town.

“What an interesting place to have a fight,” Hannah remarked, looking down at the silent buildings. “A couple of people with rifles at either end of the town could hold off an army, allowing only a few men at a time to enter.” She shrugged. “But there is only the two of us.”

Jamie smiled. “For now. Come on. We're a couple of days ahead of Layfield and at least three days ahead of those idiots behind him.”

Late that afternoon, after Jamie had killed a deer and Hannah was cooking venison steaks, they both heard the sounds of horses walking up the street, the hoofbeats echoing among the deserted buildings.

Jamie looked out what remained of a window and smiled.

“You know the rider?” Hannah asked.

“Yes. Put on another steak.”

Cord reined up and loosened the load on the packhorse. He stood for a moment, savoring the smells of cooking meat. He turned to see Jamie lounging in the open doorway.

“Why, Mister Woodson,” Jamie said. “What a surprise seeing you here.”

“A man never knows where his wanderings will take him, Colonel MacCallister.”

“I'll see to your horses, Cord. You come in and make yourself comfortable. Supper will be ready in a few minutes. Let me introduce you to Hannah.”

Inside, Cord laid his saddlebags, rifle, and blanket roll on the floor and took off his hat. “Miss Hannah,” he said with a slight bow and a smile, neither his eyes nor his expression showing any surprise at the sight of the white woman dressed in a beaded buckskin dress.

“Mister Woodson,” Hannah said. “How good of you to join us. I'll have something to eat shortly. The coffee is ready.”

Cord took a tin cup from his saddlebags and poured it three-quarters full of strong coffee and then added a touch of whiskey. “For flavor,” he said with a grin.

“Seen anybody else on the trail?” Jamie asked.

“Two riders coming in from the northeast. They should be here in about half an hour.”

“Good thing I killed that deer,” Jamie said. “The place might be filling up with wandering men.”

“That's a very good possibility,” Cord said with a twinkle in his eyes. “In spite of the vastness of the area and the sparseness of population, news has a way of traveling very quickly.”

“Yes. So it does. That packhorse was heavily loaded, Cord.”

“Yes. Two small kegs of blasting powder I bought from some miners. You never know when you might want to blow something up.” He said it all with a straight face.