Talons of Eagles (28 page)

“How true,” Hannah said, cutting off two more thick steaks.

Jamie went outside to see to Cord's horses.

“Miss Hannah,” Cord said. “I know little of Indian ways. Why do you have that single line painted on your forehead?”

“It means I am ready to die,” she said.

“I see. Well.”

“Are you?” Hannah asked him.

“Quite,” Cord replied. “What is it the Indians say? 'It is a good day to die,' right?”

“If the cause is a worthy one.”

Cord sat down and began cleaning first his pistols, then his rifle. Then he laid out a dozen boxes of ammunition and began filling cartridge belts.

Jamie returned, carrying a keg of blasting powder under each arm. From the open doorway, keeping well away from the flames in the old stove, he said, “I'll store these away from this building. Tomorrow we'll start constructing some bombs.” He looked up the street. “Riders coming.”

Preacher and Smoke reined up and swung down from their saddles. Each man led a packhorse. Without greetings, Preacher said, “Let's get this fracas over with, Jamie MacCallister. Me and Smoke got business over to La Plaza de los Leones to tend to.”

“We'll wrap this up as quickly as possible, I assure you,” Jamie said with a smile. “Grub's on inside.”

“Good. I shore be hongry around my mouth.”

“I'll see to your horses.”

“Kind of you, Jamie.”

Twenty minutes later, Sparks rode in and swung down from the saddle. “Ain't it surprisin' who you meet on the trail?” he said. “I thought I had this country all to my lonesome.”

“I'll cut another steak,” Hannah said.

“Best cut several more,” Sparks told her. I just spotted Lobo and Audie headin' this way.”

“Two more,” the voice came from the rear of the building.

Those inside turned.

Night Stalker and Dark Hand stood there, both of them painted for war. Their approach had been so silent not even the birds and squirrels had been alarmed.

“Place is gettin' right crowded,” Preacher remarked. “I thought you was dead, you ol' horse thief,” he said, looking at Night Stalker.

“Not dead yet,” the Nez Perce said. He raised one arm and made a circling motion with his hand. “Men gather on the slopes. Have whiskey and barrels of beer. They come to watch, I think. Some women with them.”

“We ought to charge admission,” Preacher said. “Gimmie another one of them steaks, Quiet Woman. You do have a way with venison.”

“How many men are we up agin, Jamie?” Sparks asked.

“Too damn many,” Jamie replied, filling his cup with coffee. He heard the voices of Lobo and Audie fussing with each other.

After everyone had eaten, Lobo patted his big belly. “I reckon we bes' be sittin' down and figurin' this here thing out.” He had eaten about five pounds of meat.

“Very succinctly put,” Audie said.

“Whatever the hell that means,” Lobo groused.

“An incredible story,” Richard Leander, editor of the paper, said, after listening for the tenth time to Ben Franklin Washington's telling of the events in Virginia. He had made him retell the story. This time it was taken down by a Boston police secretary.

Ben had just had the stitches removed from the back of his head, and the grooves in his arm and chest from the bullet meant to kill him were almost healed.

“What an evil woman,” the associate editor said. “Let's start legal action against them immediately.”

Ben shook his head. “No proof.” Ben had also studied for the law. “The detective's death was ruled accidental, and I don't know who hit me, kidnapped me, shot me, and left me for dead. And whatever we write about the incident must be worded very carefully. We don't want to let ourselves open for a libel suit.”

Leander tapped a finger on the desk for silence. “I have two men who should be at Goldtown now. They are to interview this Cord Woodson. I dispatched them immediately after Ben's return. One is an attorney and the other a Federal marshal. They are both experienced fighting men and quite capable of taking care of themselves. We'll do nothing about this until I hear from them. When they reach the nearest telegraph lines on their return, they are to wire me.”

“Where is that, sir?” he was asked.

“Somewhere in Kansas, I think. But the wires may have been pushed farther west by now. I just don't know. The nation is pushing westward at near breakneck speed.”

Leander looked at Ben. “You are aware, Ben, that once exposed, your mother could be ruined?”

Ben shook his head. “Not her. She has money scattered all over the country. So does her brother. We might disgrace her, but we'll never ruin her financially. She's far too smart for that.” The young man sighed. “Sir, there are others to be considered, as well. Page Woodville knows nothing of her background. The same goes for Ross's children. I don't have the right to ruin their lives. This is such a sad affair, touching so many people. There must be a way we can handle it discreetly.”

“I don't see how that can be done,” one of the paper's lawyers said.

“There must be a way,” Ben said.

There was, and Anne LeBeau Woodville had already thought of it.

* * *

Night Stalker pointed to the crudely drawn map. “Make rock slides here,” he said. “Block road. Then men must come in on foot to attack town. When big group is in pass, we use blasting powder to bring down walls of canyon on both sides. Kill plenty, I bet.”

“That's mighty good plannin', Night Stalker,” Lobo said. “Sounds good to me.”

“It's a very good plan,” Cord said. “Jamie?”

“Let's get busy.”

* * *

The two men Leander had sent to Goldtown had arrived, heard the news about the up-coming fight, and were now only a few miles away from Bell City, riding as hard as they dared push their horses.

“Nine men and one woman, at the most, against four or five hundred armed men?” the Federal marshal said. “They won't stand a chance.”

“Don't bet on that,” the attorney said. “But what we don't want to do is get caught up in this fight. We'll try to see Cord Woodson before the action starts, get his statement, if any, and get the hell out of there.”

“I don't want to get trapped in that town,” the marshal replied.

The Boston attorney shuddered at the thought.

* * *

“You failed,” Anne told her brother. “Ben Franklin Washington is still alive.”

Ross was stunned. “That's impossible!”

“But true. My detectives say he returned to Boston and has had several meetings with police, attorneys, and Federal people. A big wind is gathering, brother dear. Our house of cards is coming down.”

Ross rose to pace the room. “For once I am at a loss for words, Anne.”

“I'm not. I began preparing for this the day after I married Cort. How much cash could you get together in, well, say a week?”

Ross smiled. “Quite a tidy sum, sister.”

“Enough to live comfortably on for the rest of your life? Be sure now.”

“Oh, yes. I've already seen to my children's future. Yes. I'll have quite a sum.”

“Get it together. And do it quickly. Return here when you've done it. Then we'll make our move.”

After Ross had left, two men stepped out of a room off to one side of Anne's office. “Follow him discreetly,” she told the men. “Be here when he returns with the money.”

“And then?” one of the men questioned.

“Just be sure you get here a few minutes before he does,” Anne said coldly.

* * *

“He's in that old deserted town about ten miles from here, Colonel,” Layfield's scout reported. “MacCallister and about eight or ten other people. And one of them is an Injun woman.”

The scout added that the pass was blocked. Layfield waved that off. “The woman is probably that wife of his. Good work. We'll hit them just after dawn.” He turned to the former Union army sergeant and deserter, Carl Miller. “Captain Miller, see that the men are well fed and get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow we finish MacCallister once and for all.”

Miller saluted and smiled. “Yes, sir!”

* * *

Jamie and Kate's second set of twins, Andrew and Rosanna, now lived in England with their spouses, Liza and Alfred. Andrew and Rosanna were due to return to the States in about a month for the start of a sell-out tour that would begin in New York City, wander around the country, and eventually end in San Francisco. James William Haywood and his bride, Page, were winding up their honeymoon in England and planned to return to the States with the twins and their troupe.

They knew nothing of the events that were rapidly coming to a head thousands of miles away; events that could possibly alter their lives forever.

* * *

Jamie and his friends, with the exception of young Jensen, might well have been getting on in years, but what they lacked in youth, they more than made up for in cunning.

Layfield sent fifty men into the pass as spearheaders, picking their way carefully through the mounds of rock. High above them, the fuses to carefully placed packets of explosives were lighted. When the explosives went off, there was nothing the men in the pass could do except look up and wait to die. Every man was lost, buried under tons of rock. When the dust cleared, the pass was forever blocked from the east for anything other than foot travel, and even that was going to be rough. To attack from the west, Layfield and his men would have to travel north for several days, then cut west, then travel south to reach the west end of the pass. It was a long detour, and Layfield had sense enough to realize that Jamie and those with him would be sniping and nipping at their heels the entire way. And he knew only too well how proficient a guerrilla fighter Jamie was. Layfield silently cursed Jamie MacCallister and everyone who was with him. Eight or nine old men and one damned old squaw, or whore—to Layfield's mind, one was synonymous to the other—holding back several hundred men. Well, he silently amended, minus fifty good men who now lay entombed forever under tons of rock.

“We wait and go in after dark,” Layfield ordered.

Which was exactly what Jamie and the others hoped he would say.

But Layfield didn't count on the several hundred spectators being there. At night, numerous camp fires dotted both sides of the pass leading to the dark and silent town. And nearly to a person, the spectators were on the side of those in the town. The fires really added little light to the blocked pass far below them, but Layfield worried about them. They were a distraction.

Inside the town, the defenders had no illusions about their situation. They had enough powder for one, maybe two more carefully placed explosions . . . then it would be bullets as Layfield's men made their way through the pass, and blades when they closed. And enough would make it through; the men and Hannah did not kid themselves about that.

At the west end of the pass, with the besieged town in sight, the attorney from Boston asked, “Why don't they just get out? What they're doing is eventually committing suicide.”

The Federal marshal replied, “It's a holding action, I suspect. Giving the people back in MacCallister's Valley time to get ready. And also cutting down the numbers those people will have to face when Layfield finally does break through.”

“Are those warrants we were told about valid?”

“They're not worth the paper they're written on. But until a judge declares them worthless, there is nothing I can do about this . . . travesty.”

“We have to talk to Woodville—if that is Cort Woodville down there going by the name of Woodson.”

“It's Woodville,” the marshal said. He was thoughtful for a few moments. “I have a plan. See what you think about this . . .”

* * *

“Two men carryin' white flags comin' in from the west,” Lobo called to Jamie.

One of the men stopped in the center of the street while the second man, his badge pinned to the lapel of his coat, rode up to the edge of the blocked pass.

“Layfield! I'm Red Foster, federal marshal. I need to talk to one of the men in town. Hold your fire until I leave the area. And that is an order. Do you understand me?”

“Red Foster of the Illinois cavalry?” Layfield returned the shout.

“That's right.”

“Take as much time as you need, Marshal.”

“Thank you,” Red muttered, turning his horse. “You pompous, arrogant, over-bearing, loudmouthed jackass!”

The attorney had taken Cord and Jamie off to a separate building and said, “Wait until Marshal Foster gets here. Then we shall explain what this is all about.”

Red shook hands with both men, and they sat down on dusty old chairs while the Boston attorney laid it all out for Jamie and Cord.

When he finished, Red said, “That's the story, Mister Woodville, and we know you are Cort Woodville.” He removed a photograph from a leather case and laid it on the table. “This was taken in 1864. Will you deny it is you, sir?”

“No,” the plantation owner turned gambler and gunfighter said with a sigh. “I remember when it was taken. Let me warn you of something, gentlemen: Anne LeBeau is a dangerous woman. Much more so than you think. If she has learned that our son is still alive, she will be acting swiftly and with deadly dispatch to rectify that problem. She has always thought Ross to be weak, so it is my belief that once the news of the failure to kill her son reaches her, she will remove Ross first, then take whatever assets he has, and leave Virginia. You will never be able to trace her through her holdings, for she uses many names, through many dummy companies. She will simply change her name, alter her appearance somewhat, and head west, to start all over. Probably in California. And she will leave no one alive behind her to tell the story. Believe that, gentlemen. The woman is as ruthless as a black widow spider.”

“So you will verify and sign these papers attesting that the young man named Ben Franklin Washington is your son?”

“I verify nothing and I will sign nothing,” Cord said with a smile. “The young man's needs have been seen to, and he is comfortable as far as money is concerned. He will never have to worry about a thing. Now, as ruthless as Anne is, she will not harm Page. I know that. We both have seen that Page will never want for anything. Tell Ben to stop this pursuit after his birth mother. If he continues to dog her, she won't fail again. Tell the young man to accept what he is and drop the matter.”

“He will never stop, sir,” Red said.

“Then he's a damn fool!” Cord said harshly. “I suspect that Anne let Ross arrange Ben's, ah, accident. That was her first mistake. She won't make that mistake again. The next time, she'll handle it, and Ben will be dead. And all he will have accomplished is to destroy his sister's future. If he continues to pursue that end, and I live through this fight, I'll kill the son of a bitch myself.”

“Listen, Mister Woodville,” the Boston attorney said, after recovering from his shock at the harsh words.

“No, you listen!” Cord cut him off. “Is Ben so selfish he wants to ruin other lives? What else might he want? To live in a grand mansion and be lord of the manor? He might do that, but he will never be anything other than what he is, and that is a goddamn quarter-breed. I don't care how much money he has; we're not talking about oh-so-proper Boston. We're talking about the South, where passions run high against Negroes. They were slaves four short years ago. You think the stroke of a pen will change the feelings of two hundred plus years? Don't be naive, gentlemen. Tell Ben to accept what he is and drop the matter.”

“He'll never do that, Mister Woodville,” Red said. “He is one very determined young man.”

“If that is the case, gentlemen, what he might well end up as is one very dead young man.”

“Is that your final word on the matter, sir?” the Boston lawyer said, his words stiff with indignation . . . among other things.

“That's it.”

Red cut his eyes to Jamie. “And, you, sir?”

“Why destroy lives when nothing is to be gained by it?” Jamie asked. “If Ben Franklin Washington persists in this, my grandson might well call him out and shoot him. MacCallisters have a tendency to take the shortest route toward a goal. I sympathize with the young man. But in some respects, I have to agree with Cord. Drop the matter. I know Anne. I watched her grow up. That is one dangerous woman. I personally don't think the Negro will ever be fully accepted as an equal by the majority of white people in this country. North, South, East, or West. I can't tell you why that is, but it's what I believe. Maybe in a hundred or so years, but I have my doubts at that. And neither will the Indian, not in large groups anyway. It's sad, but I think it to be true.”