Jamie got into real estate and bought up a number of lots, then turned right around and sold them for as much as ten times what he had initially paid for them. It was a game for Jamie, since he didn’t really need the money and had no intention of spending too many more months in the city by the bay.
He and Kate decided to stay the winter and return by the northern route come the spring.
But Kate wasn’t fooled. She knew Jamie was staying solely because he wanted to find out who hated them enough to want them dead.
Meanwhile, the mountain men had been doing a bit of snooping around on their own, frequenting the rougher bars and standing shoulder to shoulder with thugs and foot-padders and brigands, talking and listening. Finally, their vigilance paid off and hit the mother lode.
“Evans is in the city,” Sparks told Jamie one afternoon. “He’s goin’ by the name of Charles Russent. And Laurin is here, too, goin’ by the name of Robert Brown. Their offices is in the same buildin’.” Sparks took a big swig of fresh coffee Kate had poured him and sighed. “Good. Best coffee in the city.”
Jamie waited, figuring that Sparks had more.
“They pretty much stay out of sight ’ceptin’ for business, but I heard a thug name of Phil Packer is in their employ. And from what I hear, there ain’t no sorrier no-good rascal west of the Mississippi than Phil Packer. He’s got him a gang of thugs that’ll do anything for money. And Preacher heard it was his boys that busted in on Kate and set the music hall on fire. But no proof that’ll stand up in court, even if there was a decent court of law in this city.”
Jamie started to say something, and Sparks held up his hand. “They’s more. Ain’t nobody seen hide nor hair of Phil Packer since the night of the fire, nor none of his boys.”
Jamie drummed his blunt fingers on the table for a moment. “Add that all up, and you might get the idea that Packer and his men were responsible for the attacks and for the fire, and are hiding out until everything cools down, so to speak.”
“Well now, that very thought did cross my mind,” Sparks replied with a smile.
Jamie pulled out a small sack of gold dust and clunked it on the table. “You reckon that much dust would loosen someone’s tongue, Sparks?”
Sparks laughed and then held up a big, balled fist. “If it don’t, this will!”
Four
Ian had been pondering an idea that he thought his pa would approve of. Since the valley had long been homesteaded and his pa had written word from the government that the land would belong to those who laid claim to it, Ian began marking out sections in the adjacent valley and having those kids old enough to file on it do so. As soon as they did, he promptly bought it. Trappers and mountain men who knew Ian rode through, thought it was a good idea, filed, and then sold to Ian, since none of them had any inclination whatsoever to homestead. Before the fall was over, Ian owned the entire valley that lay east of MacCallister’s Valley. He tore down the old cabins and barns and sheds that had been built a few years back—and not built all that well, either. Caroline worked right beside him with the baby close by.
There were more settlers coming in and passing through and many were unwilling to give the Indians a chance to be friendly, adopting a shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later attitude toward any Indian. Black Thunder decided to move most of his band and headed north. “Too many whites,” he said sadly. “Too much trouble coming. You tell Bear Killer that my heart is heavy because I do not get to say farewell to my friend.”
With the leaving of Black Thunder and most of his people, the valley seemed a little bit less lovely, for Black Thunder had been a good friend to the settlers for over a decade.
During the absence of Jamie and Kate, the late summer of ’48 and the spring and early summer of ’49 brought several wagon trains near the twin valleys now claimed by the MacCallister clan. Most of the movers took one look at the lushness and wanted to stay, but like his father, Ian was very selective, selling or granting permission to stay to only a very few of the pioneers. Ian had unknowingly set up the first zoning restrictions west of the Mississippi River.
One mover became so irate over Ian’s refusal to sell (and all the choice spots had been claimed by Ian) he made the mistake of cursing Ian and then grabbing for a gun. The tiny cemetery on the east side of MacCallister’s Valley grew by one.
Another mover saw Moses and his family and kin and wanted to know how come it was that a bunch of goddamn niggers could live there and a decent white man (like himself, presumably) could not. He was shown the way west and wisely took the not-so-subtle hint. MacCallister’s Valleys, as the area was now known, became the first spot west of the Mississippi where racial tolerance was practiced. Color or creed meant nothing to the long-time settlers there, only what was in a person’s heart. And the settlements grew by a few more families and one more store during the absence of Jamie and Kate. When the population in the valleys hit a hundred and fifty, Ian was approached by Swede, Sam, Moses, and some of the others and asked to become their sheriff.
Ian was amused. “I think not, gentlemen. Talk to my father when he returns.”
In California, the mild winter was over and spring was soft in the air. All that past winter Evans and Laurin tried unsuccessfully to locate Phil Packer and his gang, but they were never located. Jamie and the mountain men struck the camp of the outlaws at dawn one fall morning and wiped them out to the last man. They were back in the city two days later with no one the wiser.
Using his wealth to buy information, Jamie had built a solid case against Maurice Evans, known as Charles Russent, and Laurin, known as Robert Brown. But what law there was in the city was so corrupt, and the two men so rich and powerful, they were untouchable by any legal methods.
“Keep an eye on Kate,” Jamie said to Sparks and Preacher early one spring evening. “I’m going for my walk.”
Neither man thought anything about it, for Jamie always took a stroll that time of day. Nor did they think anything about Jamie tucking a Colt .44 behind his belt. Nearly everyone in the city carried a gun.
Jamie walked straight to Pierre’s Restaurant, where he had learned that Maurice Evans ate his dinner every Friday evening.
It was known throughout the city that there was a blood feud between Jamie and an eastern businessman called Maurice Evans. It was not known that Charles Russent was Maurice Evans. The manager of the small and very expensive restaurant was delighted to see Mr. Jamie Ian MacCallister walk in. He rushed up to greet him, smiling.
“Stand clear,” Jamie told him.
The manager hit the kitchen at a fast walk and didn’t look back.
“Maurice Evans!” Jamie called in a loud clear voice. “Stand up and face me, you son of a bitch!”
The cafe fell silent. Not one click of knife or fork against plate could be heard. Everybody knew who Jamie Ian MacCallister was.
“Now see here!” one of the so-called policemen in the city said, standing up from the table where he was dining with Maurice Evans.
“Shut up and back away from that table or drag iron,” Jamie told the man.
The man quickly stepped away from the table. He thought he might be able to sneak a shot at Jamie if the opportunity presented itself.
“There is no one here by the name of Maurice Evans,” a nicely dressed man said. “It is my understanding that Evans fled New York City for Europe.”
“Wrong,” Jamie said. “Maurice Evans sits yonder. Evans, you’ve sent men to kill my son, my wife, my family, my friends, and me. They’ve all failed. Now it’s over. Your son, Blake Evans, called my son out. I’ve spent hard money learning the truth, and I’ve found that you did, too. Still you sent man-hunters out to kill me and mine, knowing that your son caused the trouble and forced the issue. You are directly responsible for the rape and death of a little girl. You’re directly responsible for the deaths of good men and women. You’re wearing a gun, Evans. You wear one tucked down in a holster on your left side. Stand up and face me and let’s finish thi
s once and for all.”
“You ignorant savage!” Evans said, throwing his knife and fork onto the plate. “I’ve killed a dozen men in duels.”
“You won’t kill this one,” Jamie told him.
“My son was good decent boy!” Evans shouted, his face mottled with rage.
“Your son was a bully, a murderer, and a rapist. You bought him out of trouble until society finally said enough. The sad thing is you know all that I say is true. You’re a liar and a cheat. You built your empire by bilking good, decent people out of their money. You’re nothing more than a blood-sucking leech. Now, stand up, Evans, or I’ll kill you where you sit.”
Evans smiled and stood up. “You’re a damn fool, MacCallister!” he said.
Both he and the crooked cop reached for their pistols at the same time. Witnesses said that the nicely dressed big man’s draw was so fast it was a blur. The Colt .44 leaped into Jamie’s hand, roared twice and two men were down and dying.
Jamie tucked the .44 back behind his belt and walked out of the cafe. He headed straight for lawyer Laurin’s home, located just outside the city.
Jamie kicked in the front door and nearly scared the piss out of Laurin. Crossing the room in great strides, Jamie grabbed the lawyer by the shirt collar and flung him against a wall.
“I’m not armed!” the man screamed. “I never carry a gun.”
“You’re finished,” Jamie told him. “You will leave this city and disappear from public life forever. I don’t care how you make your living; you can farm, trap, scout, run a store, do whatever you like, as long as it is not the practice of law. The reading of the law should be in the hands of honorable men. You are not an honorable man.”
“Maurice will have you killed for this!” Laurin shouted.
“Maurice Evans is dead. I just killed him.”
Laurin stood up, a man of better than average size, with good arms and shoulders on him. “You lie!”
“I never lie.”
Laurin lifted his hands and balled them into fists. “I know something about fighting, MacCallister.”
“Good. I was afraid this might be easy.”
“I’ll have you arrested and sent to prison for this, you damned backwoods savage!” Laurin screamed.
Jamie advanced toward him. “You don’t have to worry about anyone recognizing you when you start your new profession, Laurin, because I’m going to see to it that your own mother won’t be able to tell who you are. Commencing right now.”
Jamie stepped in, brushed off a quick punch by Laurin, and hit the man flush on the mouth. Blood splattered and teeth flew and the lawyer bounced off a wall, sending books and vases and bric-a-brac tumbling and crashing to the floor.
Across town, in the home in the hills, Kate said to Preacher, “Jamie is taking a bit longer than usual with his walk.”
“Yes’um,” Preacher said. “I ’spect he found someone who needed a grubstake.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” Kate said and returned to her reading.
Laurin got to his feet and tried to run. Jamie grabbed him by the seat of his tailored britches and spun him around and around in the living room. When he turned loose of the man, the lawyer sailed through a front window and went crashing into the street, rolling ass over elbows in the mud.
“When do you suppose Pa will come home?” Caroline asked of Ian.
Ian looked up from the catalog he’d been reading. The catalog had been brought to him by a trapper who’d gone back east for a visit. It was the most amazing thing Ian had ever seen. Even had ladies’ bloomers in it. He had it hidden behind a week-old newspaper. If Caroline saw it, she’d snatch it away from him and toss it in the fire. That is, as soon as she got done looking at it. “Oh, I ’spect they’ll be back this summer. Soon as Ma gets her fill of shoppin’.”
“You reckon Pa is having a good time?”
Ian smiled. “I bet you that Pa is havin’ the time of his life out yonder.”
Lawyer Laurin got up from his belly-down position in the mud, stood swaying for a moment, and Jamie knocked him down again. Laurin cussed and got up and kissed the mud again. He ran his tongue over where his front teeth used to be. MacCallister’s fist had broken them off at the gum and knocked them clean out of his mouth.
“You sorry son of bitch!” Laurin cussed, struggling to get to his feet.
Jamie’s huge right fist exploded against his jaw and the world inside Laurin’s head lit up like a skyrocket as his feet flew out from under him. The lawyer landed on his butt in the mud.
Jamie reached down and hauled the man to his feet. He held him there with his left hand and began pounding the man’s face with his right fist. Each blow sounded like a watermelon being hit with the flat side of an axe. Jamie was so mad he gave no thought that the man might well be long past feeling anything. That is, until he woke up.
After a few minutes, Jamie cooled down and realized the man was unconscious. He slowly unclenched his fist, let his right hand drop to his side, and looked at the bloody mask that had once been a human face. It was unrecognizable. The nose was flat, the lips pulped, one ear was hanging by a thin bit of skin, both eyes were swollen shut, and the man’s jaw was obviously broken, pushed over to one side.
Jamie dragged him over to the side of the wide street and let him drop to the mud, on his back. He didn’t want a wagon to run over the man; he wanted lawyer Laurin to live a long, long time. Lawyer Laurin flopped unconscious in the mud and did not move and probably wouldn’t move for an hour or so.
“Nighty, night,” Jamie said to the man, then turned and walked across the narrow road to the man’s house. Laurin’s office safe was open and Jamie went through it, finding stack after stack of stocks and certificates and bank notes. Laurin was a rich man, but he wasn’t going to be for long. Jamie piled everything in the safe on the floor and tossed a lighted lamp onto the pile. Within seconds, the room was blazing.
Jamie waited until he was certain the house would soon be nothing but smoking rubble, and then he went out the back way, circling the road until the blazing house was far behind him.
He stopped at a horse trough and bathed his hands and face and brushed the drying mud from his clothes. He used an old cloth he found to wipe his boots clean. He smoothed his hair and replaced his hat, then stepped into a bar to have a cold beer. Just as he stepped in through the bat wings, the clanging of the fire bells on the pumpers reached him. Seconds later, the horse-drawn pumpers and ladder wagon raced by, heading up the hill, shouting kids and barking dogs close behind.
“This goddamn city catches on fire nearly ever’time I look up,” the barkeep said, shaking his head and wiping the bar. “What’ll you have, mister?”
Jamie ordered a beer and stood by the bar, chatting agreeably with the bartender and the fellows left and right of him. He introduced himself and bought a round so all would remember him and recall that he had been in the bar at the time of the fire and not in the least disheveled or out of breath or muddy. No way did Jamie Ian MacCallister look like he had been in a fight. The law being what it was in the city, Jamie didn’t think he would need any type of alibi, but when dealing with a shyster lawyer, one just never knew.
Jamie drank two beers, told a few jokes, and then excused himself, stepping out into the night. He walked back to the hotel, whistling a little tune and doffing his hat to the ladies and speaking to the men he passed.
The fireball that had been lawyer Laurin’s house was no longer even a glow in the night behind him.
He and Kate would start back to the valley tomorrow. She had said she wanted to go home, and Jamie couldn’t think of a better time to do just that.
For more reasons than one.
Five
The mountain men were hesitant to let Jamie and Kate travel back to the valley by themselves. But Kate merely laughed that off. “I know you boys want to head back east,” she told the men. “Jamie and I will be just fine. Just ask Preacher about the time two fourteen-year-old kids crossed from
the Kentucky wilderness to the Big Thicket country.”
Preacher smiled. “They done that for a fact. How you headin’ back, Jamie?”
“We’re going up into Canada and ride east for time, then cut south in time to be home by late summer or early fall. I want Kate to see that country.”
“You watch them Blackfeet,” Lobo warned. “Them ain’t the friendliest Injuns on the face of this earth.”
“I’ve encountered them before,” Jamie said.
Jamie and Kate rode out of San Francisco the afternoon following the killing of Maurice Evans and the beating of lawyer Laurin. MacDuff had ridden off to the east some weeks before without saying a word.
Horse had terrorized anyone who tried to come near him during the stay in the city and had broken down half a dozen stalls. The liveryman was delighted to see him go.
Preacher and the others were taking Kate’s mare back to the valley, and for this long and rugged trip, where endurance and speed might be necessary to save their lives, Jamie had bought her a fine, rugged gelding named Star, who right from the first moment wouldn’t take any crap from Horse. After circling each other and exchanging a few bites and kicks, they decided they’d best be friends, at least for this trip.
Jamie had scoured the city and found four Colt Baby Dragoons for Kate. They were .36 caliber, four-inch barrels, and held a five-shot cylinder. Jamie had a man cut down the handles to better fit Kate’s hand and a leather worker make them matching holsters. They both carried rifles and both had a revolving shotgun in the boot. They might be set upon by hostiles or outlaws—the probability was high—but those who tried it would pay dearly for their efforts.
Jamie had given a goodly amount of cash to Sparks to take back to the settlement, and the rest was carefully banked or invested by reputable people. For the time, Jamie was a rich man.
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