Ten
Hired thugs, Jamie concluded, after spending the better part of an hour listening to the men talk. But not trash. Some of the men spoke like they had more than their share of education.
But there was no doubt in Jamie’s mind now: they were hunting him.
But one of the men was definitely not a warrior. He was a rather timid talking fellow who looked totally out of place among these brigands. Then Jamie got a shock: the man was some kind of photographer, brought along to take pictures of Jamie’s dead body when the hunters killed him. As near as Jamie could see, the man didn’t even carry a gun.
Incredible! Jamie thought. Then he got mad through and through. That damn Maurice Evans was going to post his tintype all around New York City and boast about the killing.
Jamie fitted an arrow and let it fly. A man doubled over with a grunt and fell to the ground, both hands wrapped around the shaft of the arrow embedded in his stomach.
“Oh, my God!” the photographer hollered. “The red savages are upon us.”
Jamie dropped another man with an arrow and then jerked out two double-shotted pistols and let them bang. Jamie quietly slipped away into the night, making his way back up the high ridge. He left the camp of the man-hunters in confusion and wildly shouted oaths.
As Jamie lay in his blankets that night, the stars winking high above him, one question kept worrying his mind: How did they know where to find him?
Long before dawn cleared the dark night skies, Jamie had moved his location several miles to the north of the man-hunters’ camp. And for the first few miles, he had not tried to hide his trail.
Resting now, in a spot where he could see for miles in all directions, Jamie reviewed all that he’d heard in the man-hunters’ camp the night before.
Rolly was the leader, and some of the men called him Major. A major in what army, if any? No matter. The war was on and Jamie had no intention of losing it. Other bits of overheard conversation had lifted his spirits. Seems that Maurice Evans had nixed a plan to attack the settlement in the valley. For the settlement was well established and to do so would surely be highly publicized. And since Mr. Fancy-Pants Evans had been foolish enough to make his brags about what he was going to do all over New York City, the finger of guilt would point straight to him if anything happened to the people in the settlement.
But those who hunted Ian and Jamie because of past deeds done to kin would have no such reservations. However, attacking the settlement would be a foolish thing to do, for there were a goodly number of adults there now—it was a regular village—and all the adults, men and women, were skilled with weapons and would not hesitate to use them.
Jamie took his rifle and stretched out on a flat and waited. Sure enough, they came, riding straight up the pass just as big as brass.
“Stupid,” Jamie muttered, sighting in the lead man. He let the ball fly and the man was knocked out of the saddle. He hit the ground and did not move.
Jamie had guessed accurately what was coming next, so as soon as he had made his shot, he was off and running for Horse. About a minute after his shot, the cannon boomed and the cannonball impacted with a loud explosion. But Jamie was safely away and smiling as he rode. The cannon was probably the reason the group of men had not been set upon by Indians . . . more than once. For the Indians in this area had never seen such a weapon, and upon hearing the fearsome roar and seeing the incredible damage it could do, they backed off and let the men pass.
Jamie had counted twenty-six riders before he shot, and a couple of them rode as if in pain. Now there were twenty-five, for his shot had been a killing one.
For a week, Jamie exchanged no shots with his hunters as he led the men deeper and deeper into the rugged mountains of western Montana. Then he cut south. He was going to take them down into the Hole, and there he would make his stand.
Several times Jamie had come up on bands of Indians out hunting for food. He either spoke or signed with them, explaining what was happening and being certain to tell them of the cannon and its enormous power. He wasn’t sure they believed him about the cannon, but he managed to convince them to leave the white men alone. This was his fight. The Indians understood and respected that.
He came upon trappers and mountain men who wanted to deal themselves into this game, but Jamie prevailed upon them and they reluctantly agreed to let MacCallister have his way. Besides, everybody knew Ol’ Mac was about half crazy and from the looks of things, his grandson wasn’t far behind.
Just to the scant west of the Absaroka Range, Jamie made his first hard stand against the man-hunters. He found an ideal ambush spot and there he waited.
By now, the men were tired and saddle-sore, for Jamie had been leading them on a torturous journey through some of the wildest country west of the Mississippi. They would be ready for a hot soak and rest. Jamie led them right to a hot springs, just north of Emigrant Pass and slightly east of the Yellowstone. He was chuckling as he made his plans. This was going to be quite a sight to see, and if all worked out right, he’d have the pictures to back up his story . . . and some mighty embarrassed and pissed-off men.
* * *
Cort and Anne had returned from their honeymoon abroad, and Cort was now building Anne the largest, most lavish and beautifully appointed plantation home in all of Virginia. Cort’s father and mother had retired from running the huge empire and had turned the entire operation over to Cort ... and unknowingly, the greedy and hot little hands of Anne.
Ross had been named director of the Opera House and stage company in Richmond and was really turning the city into a bastion for the fine arts. Many women flirted and carried on with Ross, and he treated them all gallantly. However, Ross’s sexual appetites lay in a different and darker (in more ways than one) direction. But he was careful to be very, very discreet.
“You goddamn stupid fool!” Anne raged at her brother. “Do you know what will happen if your sexual . . . preferences are ever discovered?”
“Relax, sister dear,” Ross told her. “You know me; I’m very careful and highly selective. Besides, I’m not all that different from the man you married.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” But Anne knew. Cort was weak when it came to lovemaking. It was almost an effort for him to make love to her. Already, they had separate bedrooms, although that in itself was not unusual among the gentry.
“You keep your hands off my husband!” Anne flared.
“He isn’t my type,” Ross told her.
* * *
Ian MacCallister and Caroline were married shortly after the first warm winds began to blow through the long valley. The entire settlement turned out to see it, including the now aging war chief Black Thunder and several of his tribe. Ian put his reputation behind him and took up the plow.
His father’s reputation, already legendary, was in still yet another growing stage.
* * *
Jamie watched the man-hunters test the hot springs, then peel out of their stiff and stinking clothes and take to the water with bars of strong soap and much whooping and hollering.
While the men were having a good time in the springs, seemingly without a care, laughing and soaping and ridding themselves of fleas and dirt, Jamie slipped into camp and stole every stitch of clothing they had, right down to their underwear. He left the little photographer’s clothes out. Then he quickly helped himself to a goodly amount of their supplies. He waited.
A half dozen Indians had watched the scene and were convulsed with laughter as they headed back to their village. What a grand story this would make.
Jamie waited until the men had emerged from the refreshing waters and then confronted them, both hands filled with double-shotted, heavy caliber pistols. “Come right on up, boys,” he called cheerfully.
The naked men complied sullenly. “That’s far enough,” Jamie told them. He looked at the badly frightened photographer. “Set up your equipment, Mr. Picture Taker. And start doing what you do.”
�
�Goddamn you, MacCallister,” Rolly snarled at him.
“Shut up,” Jamie told him. “You’re in no position to make threats. You take your pictures from all angles, now, Mr. Picture Taker. And be sure and get their faces in there plain. I want these pictures preserved for all time.”
“Shit!” one of the man-hunters said, shivering in the cool winds. “This is embarrassin’.”
The photographer, whose name was Clarence, took his shots from all angles. Jamie finally called a halt when he noticed the men turning slightly blue. “Pack up your gear, Clarence, all of it. You’re coming with me.”
“What about our clothes?” Rolly demanded.
“Well, now,” Jamie said with a smile. “You might have a problem there. I ’spect you boys will have to make you some clothes out of blankets.” He pointed one cocked pistol at a man. “You. Load up that cannon with a double charge of powder.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Do it.”
The four pounder fully charged, Jamie said, “Now pack that barrel full of mud, and pack it in tight. Jam it in full.”
“Goddamn you!” Rolly said, resignation in his voice.
“Now run a long fuse to the fire-hole,” Jamie said. “You ready to ride, Clarence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get in the saddle and take up that lead rope to your pack horse and ride down yonder a-ways and wait. And you’d better wait. ’Cause you’ll be lost as a goose in about five minutes if you don’t.”
Jamie set fire to the pile of clothing and waited until he was sure it was blazing. “Run, boys,” he told the men, picking up a burning brand and riding over to the cannon. “Run just as fast as you can.”
The men took off, stepping gingerly along on bare feet, for their boots and shoes were on fire with the clothes.
Jamie touched the brand to the fuse and got the hell away from there.
When the cannon blew, it sent chunks of metal and mud flying in all directions. When silence once prevailed, Jamie emerged from cover and shouted, “You boys have been warned. I’m giving you your lives. I’ll not be so generous if we ever meet again. You boys go on back and tell Mr. Fancy-Pants Evans this game had better be over. Now cover up your nakedness and ride!”
An hour later, Jamie said to Clarence, “You will see that those pictures get circulated, won’t you?”
“Friend,” Clarence said, still chuckling, “I despised those men back there. I’ll distribute these wherever there are people. If I can ever get back to civilization.”
“You’ll get back,” Jamie assured him.
Jamie had left the man-hunters’ saddle blankets, not out of any compassion for them, but to spare the horses getting all gaunted up in the back.
Jamie rode into an Indian village and met with a chief he had known and respected for years, explaining what had happened. The Indians thought it was the funniest thing they had ever heard. And yes, they would escort the frightened little man to a trading post and protect him. In return, Clarence would have some of the finest pictures of the noble red man to ever come out of the west, and those pictures would make him famous, moderately wealthy, and much sought after as a photographer.
Jamie headed back to the valley and Kate, thinking that surely this would be the end of people coming after he and Ian—and that he had accomplished it with a minimum of blood shed.
* * *
The news of what happened to the man-hunters quickly spread all over the wilderness, from the Mississippi River to the Pacific coast, with everybody on Jamie’s side in the matter. The man-hunters stopped at half a dozen trading posts on their way to Bent’s Fort. But the trading posts were quite suddenly and very mysteriously out of shirts and britches and underwear and shoes and boots.
When Rolly and his “professional” man-hunters finally made Bent’s Fort, they were a pitiful-looking sight. The blankets they had fashioned ponchos out of were ragged and coming apart, scarcely managing to cover their nakedness. All of the men were so sore from riding without saddles they could hardly do more than hobble about. Their feet were cut and torn. The trappers and mountain men at the fort went down to their knees laughing at the man-hunters. Rolly and his men endured it all in silent and deadly rage. Clarence, of course, had been to the fort and had long left for the east and fame.
One grizzled old mountain man, who looked to be about as old as the country, had some good advice for the men. “Jamie MacCallister let you boys live—this time. This was his way of tellin’ you all not to ever come back here after him. You got off good. You’re alive. If you come back again, he’ll kill every one of you. You been warned. Take the advice and go on back home.”
Rolly and men provisioned up—with pants and shirts and boots this time—and headed for St. Louis for a talk with lawyer Laurin.
After they had gotten clear of the fort and Jamie’s friends, Rolly said, “If that goddamn MacCallister thinks this is over, he best think again. If it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I’m gonna kill him!”
Eleven
“Pa’s comin’,” Matthew shouted, pointing to the north.
Megan ran out to ring the community bell, and the entire settlement turned out. Sparks had been through and told them what all had happened to the man-hunters, and everybody had a good laugh at what Jamie had done.
All but Kate, although she had managed a smile. She knew that Jamie was tired of the killing, knew he wanted it over. But this time he had made a mistake. Those men would never forgive the humiliation caused them by her husband. Not ever. And they would be back. And Mr. Maurice Evans would not take kindly to this slight against him. He would just outfit the men again, probably hire more men, and send them right back west with orders to kill Jamie MacCallister ... and anyone who rode or sided with him. No, husband of mine, Kate thought, this time you made a mistake.
“I never thought about it, Kate,” Jamie said later that night, snuggled in the feather tick with Kate. “But you’re probably right. I did a foolish thing in the name of humor.”
She giggled. “I do want a picture of those man-hunters, though.”
“Kate!”
* * *
Those close to Maurice Evans stated later that the man went into a towering, screaming rage when he learned of what had happened to his hand-picked mercenaries. Then he saw the pictures, which had been circulated under the table, so to speak, all around the city and almost succumbed to a fatal bout of apoplexy. But Clarence was already the darling of the literary and fledgling photographic societies and was too popular for Evans to touch.
He arranged a meeting with Rolly Hammond. “I want you to be ready to go early next spring,” he told the mercenary. “I want you to find fifty men, good men, outfit them with the most modern of weapons, and get ready to ride. I want you to have your most trusted lieutenant to ride west and find western men who know the country and who hate MacCallister. While MacCallister is out hunting, or fucking Indian squaws, or whatever he does when he is away from the valley, I want you to burn that goddamn settlement to the ground and kill everybody there. Men, women, children, horses, cattle, mules, sheep, goats, dogs. And then bury the bodies so deep they will never be found. Do you have objections to doing any of this?”
“Not if the money is right.”
“Money is no object. Name your price.”
Rolly did.
Without batting an eye, Evans said, “Done!”
* * *
1847 saw more and more settlers continuing the westward push. In April of that year, Brigham Young, prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, pushed off from Council Bluffs to the new Zion—a place that would in only three years be proclaimed as Utah Territory. In June, the Mormons crossed South Pass but then got hopelessly turned around in the Rockies. Toward the last of July 1847, Brigham Young arrived and called the arid expanse “The place.” The state of Deseret was born, later to be called Utah.
In September of that year, Stephen Foster performed “Oh, Susanna” in a
Pittsburgh saloon. That same month, General Scott’s troops broke through the walls surrounding Mexico City and raised the American flag over the “Halls of Montezuma.”
Fort Benton was established at the head of the Missouri River, Cyrus McCormick opened a new reaper factory in Chicago, and in November, missionary Marcus Whitman and twelve others were massacred by Cayuse Indians at his missionary station in Oregon.
* * *
By the middle of February, Rolly Hammond had quietly recruited his army of mercenaries to ride after Jamie and the settlement come the spring. They gathered all up and down the western Missouri border, waiting word, well-armed, with the very latest in modern weapons. They would start the ride west to the Rockies in one week.
March 1848
“You feel that old urge to roam again, Jamie?” Kate asked, stepping out onto the porch of the cabin and sitting down in the chair beside her husband.
A few minutes after a beautiful early spring dawn in the Rockies, and husband and wife both had huge steaming mugs of coffee.
Jamie smiled and reached over, taking Kate’s hand. “No, Kate. I have no such urge. I just want to stay here with you and watch our kids and grandkids grow and be happy. And that is the truth, my love.”
“Age might have something to do with that,” Kate said with a smile.
They both were thirty-eight years old. Kate looked as though she might be twenty-five at the most, and Jamie was aging just as well. People traveling through the valley were, to a person, astonished to learn that the young-looking couple had been married for over twenty-five years and had grandchildren.
This spring’s travel to Bent’s Fort had brought a dozen letters to Jamie and Kate, half of them from Andrew and Rosanna. They were planning a trip home in the late spring of that year. Both were enjoying enormous success as musicians and had married musicians, the unions producing four children. The letters contained numerous newspaper clippings hailing their accomplishments as concert pianists. They were due to arrive back in the valley that summer.
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