He tried to tell himself that was no concern of his.
Didn’t work.
But Jamie’s mind was still puzzling over some of the gunfire he’d heard back at the settlement, coming from a few of the raiders. It had been just too rapid to make any sense. So rapid that it had to have come from one pistol. But Jamie could not for the life of him figure out what it could be.
And that musing almost cost him his life.
Thunder tensed under him, screamed as only a horse can do, which can be frightening, and jumped to one side, almost throwing Jamie out of the saddle. A rifle crashed and Jamie could feel the hot breath of the ball as it sailed by his head. He kicked out of the saddle and rolled on the ground, still clutching firmly to his rifle.
He came up on one knee just as a man charged out of the brush toward where he’d seen Jamie leave the saddle. Jamie leveled his rifle and shot the man in the chest, stopping the ambusher in mid-stride and throwing him to the ground.
Jamie waited for a moment, watching to see if the man would move. He didn’t. Then Jamie could see where his ball had blown all the way through the man, exiting out his back.
Still, Jamie did not move, not wanting to reveal himself in case the man was not alone. After several minutes, Jamie eased up to the dead man and knelt down. The rifle by the man’s side was nothing to write home about, but the pistols belted around his waist were like nothing he had ever seen before. Then he realized these were the revolvers he’d heard Sparks talk about before.
Jamie slipped them from their flap holsters and hefted them. To an ordinary man, they would be very heavy, to Jamie they were light.
He didn’t know it, but he was looking at a pair of the Walker Colts, .44 caliber, six-shot revolving cylinder, weighing nearly five pounds apiece. Slightly over eleven hundred had been manufactured by Samuel Colt for the Texas Rangers, and each was serial numbered and engraved, starting with the number 1, and then either A, B, C, D, or E for the five companies of Texas Rangers. But these had no such numbers or engraving, for this was part of a shipment that had been stolen from the factory and sold to men traveling to the west.
Jamie went through the man’s jacket pocket and found a half dozen fully loaded cylinders for the Colts. There was nothing else except lint to be found. No letters from home, no money, nothing. He rolled the man under an overhang and caved dirt over him. He felt reasonably certain the man had been a part of the gang who had attacked the settlement but could not be sure. So he said a few words over the man and let it go at that.
Then he found the man’s horse and discovered two more Walker Colts in the saddlebags with another six full cylinders. He found a sack of brass percussion caps and .44 caliber balls, lead, and a mold to make more.
Jamie turned the horse loose and then rode on for another couple of miles before dismounting and beginning a careful inspection of the weapons. He loved the balance and the feel of the heavy pistols, but he didn’t like the flap holsters taken from the dead man. Jamie cut the flaps off, punched a hole through the leather and ran rawhide thongs through the holes that would fit over the hammers and thus secure the Colts in the holsters. Then he started practicing with the pistols.
The thought of seeing how fast he could get the pistols out of the holsters had not occurred to him.
Yet.
Thirteen
Jamie could tell by the way the horses were traveling they would not last much longer unless the men riding them stopped and gave them several days rest. Brigands and trash to a man they might be, but they all knew that without a horse in this country a man vastly increased his chances of getting seriously dead.
Jamie took a chance that they would either stop at the trading post for several days or ride a few miles past it and then stop and continued his working with the Colts. Then the thought of his youngest son Falcon practicing with the toy pistols came to him: why not see how fast he could get these revolvers clear of the holsters, cock and accurately fire.
“Pretty quick, Jamie,” he muttered after the second day of practice.
He made his supper and sat by the flames, not looking into them, that destroyed night vision and lingered long over a pot of coffee. A friendly band of wandering Crow had stopped by his camp for food and coffee and conversation and they told him of a group of very disagreeable white men who were camped near where Goose Creek vanishes into the earth. The Crow said the white men were loud and talked ugly.
Tomorrow, Jamie thought, some of them would stop talking ugly. They would stop talking altogether.
* * *
Andrew and Rosanna and family had arrived in the valley. Their spouses and kids were still somewhat numbed by the vastness of their journey and by the wild behavior of the men they had encountered during the last months of Bent’s Fort at its old location. In the middle of 1849, the Army wanted to buy the place, but the government offered such a ridiculously low sum of money that the Bent brothers blew it up and moved to another location some thirty miles away.
Andrew’s wife, Liza, was French, and Rosanna’s husband, Alfred, English, and they were not at all accustomed to such harsh living conditions or such uncouth behavior from some of the men they had encountered. But with the help of the settlers in the valley, they soon lost most of their stiffness and began to enjoy the wide and wild open spaces, all the while keeping a very close eye on their kids.
* * *
In Virginia things were not going nearly so well. Try as she did to prevent it, Anne became pregnant. Cort did not yet know, Ross was amused, and Anne was furious.
“I fail to see the humor in this,” Anne snapped at her brother.
“I fail to see anything except humor in it,” Ross retorted. “I never thought that milquetoast you married was man enough to father a child.”
“You’re a great one to be talking about manhood!”
Ross laughed. “Now, now, sister. You know I enjoy an occasional dalliance with the ladies.”
Anne glowered at her brother. She was not yet showing, thanks to her wearing very loose-fitting dresses, but obvious signs of her pregnancy would be only a few weeks away.
Ross smiled and said, “Have you given any thought to what might happen should you give birth to a natty-headed pickaninny, dear?”
Anne’s returning smile was not pleasant. “You’d better think about your own future should that occur, brother dear.”
“Why? I’m an innocent in all this. Your husband will simply think you’ve been sneaking out of the great house to roll about in the hay with a heavy hung field hand. I won’t be suspect.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“Of course, you could tell him the truth.”
“Then you would be ruined as well.”
“Oh, I’ve managed to put back enough money to see me through quite well, sister.”
“You mean you’ve embezzled money from the company.”
“What an ugly way to put it.”
“But true.”
Ross shrugged his shoulders then sat down in a chair in his lavishly appointed home on the outskirts of Richmond. “It’s been a good long run, dear. But living in a house of cards is precarious at best. We have to look at it that way.”
“Don’t be a fool. I plan to abort the child.”
“You better do it quickly.”
“I’ve already started. I’ve been riding and exercising daily. Nothing seems to work.”
“Taking our background into consideration, have you thought about voodoo?”
Anne leaned out of her chair and slapped him. Ross was still laughing as she stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
* * *
Jamie pushed back the blanket that served as a summer door to the trading post, ducked his head, and stepped inside. The place was empty except for the man behind the counter of the bar and another old man who was obviously a trapper. Both men looked up with interest as Jamie stepped in. They both were taken by the guns strapped around Jamie’s waist.
Ja
mie walked to the bar, his moccasins whispering on the plank floor. “Something to eat?” Jamie asked.
“Got venison and beans,” the counterman said. “And a fresh pot of coffee.”
“Sounds good.” Jamie pointed to a table in the corner where his back would be to the wall. “Over there.”
The counterman nodded.
“Ye be a MacCallister, right, laddie?” the old mountain man asked.
“That’s right,” Jamie said, sitting down. “Silver Wolf was my grandfather.”
“Was?”
“He’s dead. Three years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that. Me and old Mac rode some trails together. I’m MacDuff.”
“Heard him speak kindly of you, time to time.”
The old mountain man nodded his head and took a sip from his cup of whiskey. “Them no-counts you’re trailin’ is camped ’bout two miles from here. One or two of ’em comes in ever’ day ’bout this time, lad. They’re bad ones.”
“They won’t be for long,” Jamie said after chewing on a chunk of venison. It was tender, and that told Jamie the counterman had either pounded the toughness out of it or had a squaw chew it until it was tender and then cook it. Either way it made no difference. He was hungry. The beans had been sweetened with something, probably honey, and they were delicious.
“Six rode in here, then two more joined them. You need some help, you just give me a sign. Otherwise I’ll stay out of it. But I owe ol’ Mac. I’m ready when you are.”
“Thank you.”
Jamie had just finished sopping a chunk of bread through the juices left in his plate when he heard horses slowly approaching from the south. He had left Thunder in the stable next to the post on the north side. Jamie watched as the old mountain man loosened the pistol tucked behind his belt. He smiled at Jamie and Jamie returned the smile.
“I’ll stand clear unless I see you’re in trouble, lad.”
“This won’t take long,” Jamie assured him.
MacDuff chuckled. “Not if’n you got the blood of Mac runnin’ through you, and you do. I heared about the attack on your settlement. That’s a low thing. Whiskey, John,” he said to the counterman. “And get ready to kiss the floor.”
“I been ready!” John said, pouring the cup full of whiskey.
“Four of ’em, lad,” the mountain man said.
“Just right,” Jamie replied, and the old mountain man laughed.
The blanket was jerked back roughly and the men crowded into the room.
“You still here, pops?” one said to MacDuff.
“I don’t think I’m anywhere else, kid,” the mountain man came right back at him.
“He’s shore got a mouth on him, ain’t he, Fritz,” a man said.
“He shore do, Bob,” Fritz said. “If he wasn’t so damn old, I’d slap it off him.”
“Why don’t you try slapping me?” Jamie spoke from the gloom of the corner table. “You goddamn baby-killing scum!”
“MacCallister!” another man yelled and grabbed for the pistols behind his belt.
Jamie exploded into action, both his big hands filled with Colt .44s. The trading post rocked with the enormous reports of the Colts and the low-ceilinged room quickly filled with gray smoke, the cries of the hideously wounded, and the forever lasting silence of the dead.
Bob Dalhart, the man who had raped and then killed Melinda, was leaning up against the bar. His pistols were on the floor and both hands were holding his .44-caliber perforated belly. The other three were either dead or dying on the floor.
“Shit!” John the counterman said, from his position in a corner behind the bar. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ so quick as that.”
“You bastard!” Bob cursed Jamie.
“You’ll rape and kill no more children,” Jamie said, his eyes holding a terrible light. He lifted his left hand .44 and shot the man in the center of his forehead.
“Hell,” MacDuff said. “I didn’t even get airy chance to go into action.” He looked at Jamie. “You unholy quick with them things, lad. Ungodly quick.”
All the men had been carrying Walker Colts, and Jamie retrieved the pistols, giving one and a sack of caps and balls to the old mountain man.
“Thankee,” the man said, hefting the pistol.
“And you can have their horses and equipment, too,” Jamie said.
“That is kind of you. Mighty fine stock they is.”
Jamie dragged the bodies out to the rear of the post, and the counterman swabbed the place out with buckets of water and a worn mop. Jamie stepped back into the trading post.
“Are you goin’ to be leavin’ now?” the counterman asked, a hopeful note in his voice.
“No,” Jamie said.
“Shit!” the man muttered.
“Their friends will likely come callin’ when they don’t get back,” the mountain man said. “This time, give me a chance to do something.” He held up the pistol. “I want to see how this big heavy bastard bangs.”
The counterman pointed to the rear of the store. “What about them back yonder? It’s warm out, man. They’re gonna get ripe real quick.”
“I’ll dig the holes,” Jamie said. “After their friends join them.”
“I got a better idee,” MacDuff said. “John, you just moved the privy, didn’t you?”
“Yeah! I did. Just last week. The old hole is still uncovered.”
“I’ll drag them over there and shove ’em in,” the mountain man said. “That’ll save a lot of diggin’. And I can’t think of no better restin’ place for scum like that.”
MacDuff refused any help, so Jamie drank coffee and listened to the sound of bodies splashing and slopping into the old privy pit. The mountain man came back in grinning.
“Worked me up a thirst, I did. Whiskey, John. And make it quick. Two more is comin’ up the trail.”
The counterman shook his head and picked up a couple of buckets to fill with water so he could sluice down the floor after the shooting was done.
Jamie waited at the table in the corner. The horses of the dead men were still at the hitch rail so their absence would not alarm the other raiders.
The counterman peered out the open window. “I know them two’s names. George and Witt, I heard them called.”
The pair stepped into the trading post and stood for a moment, confusion on their faces at not finding their fellow brigands there.
“What the hell?” George said.
“That’s where they’ve gone,” Jamie said, standing up with both hands filled with .44s.
The pair of raiders clawed for the pistols stuck behind their belts just as the guns in Jamie’s hands boomed. George took two in the chest and was knocked out the open doorway, taking the brightly colored blanket with him. Witt was slammed into the bar, gut-shot. He dropped his cocked Colt .44 on the floor as his hand no longer had the strength to hold it. The pistol fired and the ball blew off part of his right foot.
Witt died with a very strange expression on his face.
* * *
The outlaw camp was deserted when Jamie reached it. He found the tracks of three horses leading south, he recognized two as Rolly’s and the pack horse’s. The other was new to him. The pair must have panicked when the others didn’t return. The ashes of the campfire still contained live coals, and a lot of blankets and ground sheets and clothing had been left behind.
Jamie started tracking but with caution. Rolly and the second man now knew Jamie was only a few hours behind, and a scared man is a very dangerous man. But as he tracked, Jamie soon realized the men were running hard, without any thought of setting up an ambush. He still kept the thought of an ambush in mind.
Jamie now rode with two .44s belted around his waist, two more in holsters on either side of the saddle, hooked onto the saddle horn, and two more ready to bang in his saddlebags. He had two more packed away to give to Ian. He bedded down with his quarry’s campfire in sight, about two miles ahead and below where Jamie had made his cold camp on a
ridge overlooking a valley.
Vic Johnson looked up at the mountains and shivered.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rolly asked, even though he knew perfectly well what was the matter.
“MacCallister. He’s up yonder. I can feel his eyes on me.”
“Nonsense.”
“You scoff if you like. He’s up yonder. Tomorrow’s the day we both die.”
Rolly Hammond felt a cold shiver of fear run icy fingers up and down his spine. He said nothing.
“My mother don’t even know where I am,” Vic said.
“Does she care?” Rolly asked sarcastically.
“I reckon not. I left home years ago and ain’t never been back.”
“Why’d you leave home?” Rolly didn’t really give a damn why Vic had left home, but conversation was a comforting thing with MacCallister breathing down their necks.
“I killed my pa with a hay fork.”
For a moment, Rolly was speechless. Finally, he asked, “Why’d you do that?”
“I got tired of workin’ the fields and of him beatin’ on me when I didn’t work. So I cornered him in the barn one day and run him through and through. That sure was one surprised man.”
“I can imagine,” Rolly said dryly. “But very briefly surprised.”
“Naw. He lived for days afterward, so I heard. I hope he suffered. I hated that bastard.”
Rolly stared at the man for a moment. “Did anybody ever tell you that you were a real prince of a fellow?”
Vic’s face brightened. “No. Say, Rolly, thanks!”
Fourteen
When Rolly Hammond and Vic Johnson rolled out of their blankets the next morning, their horses were gone, including the pack horse. They still had their food and their weapons and blankets. But they were afoot.
Rolly thought they were somewhere in Oregon, but he wasn’t really sure of that. He didn’t know that he’d been running in a near perfect circle, first west, then north, then east, and then south. For days the sun had not shone, and the men had gotten all turned around in the silent wilderness. They were less than three days’ ride from the settlement in MacCallister’s Valley.
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