Dreams of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “I don’t care,” Falcon said. “I got enough jerky and pemmican up there to last for months. I’ll see you both next year.” He walked up the stairs, his moccasins barely whispering on the wood, and closed the door.

  Kate was so mad she could spit. She sputtered for a moment while Jamie braced himself for what he knew was coming out of her mouth, and hoping he could contain his amusement. Kate stamped her little foot and said, “Shit!”

  Then she got madder still when she looked at Jamie and he was just barely able to control his laughter.

  “You think this is funny?” she demanded, standing in front of him, hands on hips.

  Jamie was choking on suppressed laughter; he could but nod his head.

  Kate pointed to the upstairs. “That’s your son, Jamie Ian MacCallister. You made him what he is. You’ve roughhoused with that boy and taught him how to fight and shoot and quick-draw when you should have been helping him with his studies. Fine! Well, that’s just dandy.”

  “What do we have for supper?” Jamie asked, wiping his eyes on a bandanna.

  A very dangerous look came into Kate’s eyes. Jamie recognized it and stood up, moving toward the front door as Kate walked swiftly into the kitchen and picked up a pie, returning to the large family room.

  “Well, Jamie Ian MacCallister!” she shouted. “I fixed this jist pie1 for dessert. But I think you can have it right now!”

  Jamie almost made it but not quite. The jist pie caught him on the back of the head and neck just as he was pickin’ ’em up an puttin’ ’em down leaving the room. Kate had a pretty good throwing arm on her, too. The pie splattered and the pie pan bonged off his head and fell with a clatter to the porch floor. Jamie reached around and got a mess of pie on his fingers and ate it.

  “Good pie, too,” he said, heading for the small saloon until Kate cooled down.

  * * *

  Jamie came back home after an hour, cautiously opening the door. Kate was sitting in her rocker, a shawl over her knees, reading by lamplight from Hawthorne’s The Maypole of Merrymount. She pointed to the kitchen. “Your supper’s in there. And I just took another pie out of the oven.”

  “What I had of the first one was delicious,” he said.

  She ducked her head to hide her grin.

  While Jamie ate, Kate drank coffee at the table with him. Finally, she said, “About our son—”

  “He’ll be out of here and gone in two years, Kate. I see it in him. He’s a wild one. He takes after Grandpa and me.”

  “But he’s just a child, Jamie!”

  “So were we when we left Kentucky, Kate. The boy is tough and he’s smart. He reads and figures well. But he’s had enough of it. I’ve seen this coming for months. You and Sarah and the others have had him for almost seven years of schooling. Now it’s my turn to teach him what he really needs to know to survive.”

  “He’s going to turn out to be a gun man, Jamie.”

  “Maybe. Yes, you’re probably right. But he will always be on the side that he believes is right.”

  “He’s too good with a gun, Jamie.”

  “He’s near’bouts as quick as I am, for a fact. Faster when he uses those Baby Dragoons of yours,” he added with a smile. “Besides, Morgan hasn’t done too badly, so I hear.”

  Both of them looked up at the sounds of a fast galloping horse.

  “At this hour?” Kate asked.

  “I’m friendly!” came the shout, after someone in the village hailed the rider. “Lookin’ for the father of Morgan MacCallister.”

  “Yonder’s his cabin,” Dan Noble said.

  Jamie flung open the door. “I’m Jamie MacCallister. Morgan is my son.”

  “I be a friend of Preacher’s, Jamie MacCallister. Name is Pete Bristol.”

  “I’ve heard Preacher speak of you.”

  “Morgan’s down in New Mexico, Jamie. Little town just south of Taos. So little it ain’t even got airy name. But it’s run by a rancher name of Barlow—”

  “Light and sit,” Jamie called from the porch. “Have some food while you tell the rest of it. Is Morgan in trouble?”

  “Shootin’ trouble, Jamie. He needs help bad.”

  “Falcon!” Jamie roared, and the door to the boy’s bedroom was flung open. “Go get your brother, Ian. Move, boy. Now!”

  Jamie and Ian listened to Pete’s story while the exhausted man wolfed down two plates of food and a pot of coffee. It was obvious that he had ridden hard to get there.

  Matthew had slipped into the room, listening.

  When Pete had finished, the man was almost asleep in his chair. Jamie put him in a spare bedroom—they had plenty now that all but one of the kids were gone—and turned to Ian. “Saddle us up two horses apiece, son—”

  “And two for me,” Matthew said softly.

  Jamie turned to look at the young man. Matthew was not a fast gun, but he was steady and puma-mean when angered. Jamie nodded his head. “All right, Matt. Ian, saddle up stock we can trade along the way.” He looked at Falcon. “You’re the man of this house while I’m gone, boy. You look after your ma and do it right, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Pa. You can count on me.”

  “Boys, have your wives fix some pokes of food. We’re riding tonight and we’ll sleep in the saddle. Move!”

  Kate grabbed hold of one arm. Her blue eyes were flashing fire. “You get my boy out of trouble, Jamie, you understand?”

  Jamie smiled. “Yes, ma’am!”

  Jamie kissed Kate and held her close for a moment, then gently pushed her away and stepped out onto the porch.

  Swede, Sam, Moses, Wells, and the others had gathered outside, all of them armed and ready and willing to go. “You need some help, Jamie?” Sam asked.

  Jamie looked at all his friends, good, solid steady men all. He smiled and shook his head. “I’d feel better if you all stayed here and took care of this valley. Pete could have unknowingly been duped into bringing a false alarm.” Jamie didn’t believe that at all, he just didn’t want his friends to get hurt or killed in this mini-war.

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Swede said. “You’re right, Jamie. By golly, you are.”

  Jamie stepped into the saddle and picked up the lead rope to his spare mount. “Let’s ride, boys.”

  Father and sons rode south into the night. Each carried two Colt revolvers belted around his waist, two more in holsters specially made to fit over the saddle horn, left and right, and two more in the saddlebags. They each carried two full cylinders for each pistol, plus a rifle.

  They rode until dawn, changing mounts whenever the ones they were riding began to tire. At dawn, they stopped at a small ranch many miles south of the valley and explained their situation. The rancher yelled for his wife and kids to make coffee and put some food on while he took the tired horses and swapped them for fresh ones from his corral.

  The men wolfed down food, swallowed huge gulps of hot, black coffee, and were once more in the saddle.

  The rancher had warned them, “Injun trouble south of here, MacCallister. Jicarilla ’Paches are on the prod. Be careful.”

  Jamie thanked the man and pointed his horse’s nose south.

  They stopped at noon to once more swap horses and eat and sleep for a couple of hours, then they were on their way.

  The hours seemed to melt into one long ride, day or night, it made no difference. The boys learned then why their father was held in such respect and awe. He never seemed to tire. Never complained. Never once did they see the big man slump in the saddle. When they stopped for rest, Jamie stretched out on the ground and was asleep in a dozen heartbeats, awake in two hours and ready to go.

  “The man’s indestructible,” Matt whispered to his brother, during a time they were walking their horses along to save them. “He’s twice our age and ridin’ us both into the ground.”

  Ian grinned through the strain on his face. “That’s why half the country is scared to death of him,” he returned the whisper. “And Falcon’s gonna be just lik
e him.”

  “Falcon?”

  “You bet. For a time I thought I’d be the one to step into Pa’s boots.” He shook his head. “I’m fast enough and mean enough, I reckon, but I’m lackin’ something that Pa’s got. But Falcon’s got it, and it scares ma.”

  “I just never noticed.”

  Ian smiled. “Hell, brother, you’re still honeymoonin’! You ain’t come up for air yet.”

  Seven

  Taos, named San Geronimo de Taos, was settled first in 1621 by a Spanish priest. For well into the middle and late 1870s, the town was wild and free-wheeling. It was that way when Jamie and sons rode in. It was mid-morning. That day and night and part of the of next day would be the stuff of legends. It was also the day that the Bar-B, its owner, his sons, and many of the toughs who rode for the brand would cease to exist.

  The three men had camped the night before along the Rio Grande bathed, shaved, and changed into clean clothing.

  “You boys sit out here and relax,” Jamie said, reining up in front of the marshal’s office. “Watch my back. I’m going to have a little chat with the marshal and see if I can find out about Morgan.”

  Kit Carson had called Taos his home for many years, but even though he married a local woman, he was gone most of the time.

  Jamie pushed open the door and stepped in. A man Jamie assumed to be the marshal was at his desk and two of his men were lounging about the office. They looked up at Jamie’s entrance and immediately cut their eyes to one another as the MacCallister family resemblance sank in.

  “Morgan MacCallister,” Jamie said, blunt and right straight to the point. “Where is he?”

  “How the hell should I know?” the man behind the desk said. “I’m actin’ marshal. Who are you?”

  “Jamie MacCallister. Morgan is my son.”

  “Well, well,” the man said, leaning back in his chair. “Another big-shot MacCallister come to town. I’ll say this, if you ain’t no more than your son, that means you ain’t jack-shit, mister. Now get out of my office.”

  Jamie took two steps, jerked the acting marshal out of his chair, and threw him out the front window. He turned and drew at the same time and blew a hole in one of the two men who was just clearing leather. The man fell back against the potbellied stove, knocking it over, soot flying in all directions, sighed once, and was dead.

  “I’m out of this!” the third man screamed, holding his hands wide. “I’m clean out of this.”

  “My son. Where is he?”

  “Back yonder in a cell. He’s been hit but the doc says he’ll live. I didn’t rough him up, MacCallister. The marshal yonder did. Big Ben Barlow railroaded your boy. Morgan was takin’ the side of some homesteaders who made the mistake of squattin’ on land that Barlow claims is his.”

  “Is it?”

  “No, sir. It’s free land.”

  “Did the marshal rough my son up before or after he was hit?”

  The man hesitated, then blurted, “After.”

  “Pa?” a weak call came from the rear of the jail. “Is that you, Pa?”

  “I’m here, boy. Hang on.” Jamie didn’t just open the front door to the marshal’s office, he tore it off the hinges and threw it out into the street. “Ian, Matt, see to your brother.” Jamie stepped out onto the boardwalk just as a crowd was gathering across the street and the acting marshal was getting to his feet.

  He didn’t stay on his feet long.

  Jamie walked up to the man and slapped him, knocking the man clean off his boots and into the dust of the street. “You like to rough up wounded men, you bastard. Try roughing me up.”

  The marshal got to his feet and Jamie then proceeded to stomp him. Three times he knocked the man unconscious and three times Jamie dunked him in a horse trough and brought him back to very painful awareness. Finally, Jamie let the man slump to the street.

  During the decidedly one-sided fight, Jamie had seen Morgan being led out of the jail by Ian and Matt and across the street to a doctor’s office. If his son was up and walking, he would be all right.

  “That’s Ben Barlow’s man,” a citizen said, pointing to the bleeding and unconscious acting marshal.

  “Big deal,” Jamie said.

  “He’ll be comin’ in here with all his toughs, rippin’ and stompin’, mister. You got no right to get innocent people hurt.”

  Jamie then proceeded to tell the citizen what he thought about people who kowtowed to tin-horn tyrants . . . among other things, many of which were extremely profane and would be quite painful to the citizen’s rear-end if actually attempted.

  The citizen’s face turned chalk-white and he went flapping his arms and squawking like a goose back into his store. He slammed the door and hung a “CLOSED” sign in the window.

  Jamie slapped the acting marshal awake and threw him on a horse. “You go tell Barlow I’m here. Tell him to come foggin’ if that’s his intention. This town’s graveyard ain’t half-filled yet. Now ride, you two-bit bastard!”

  Then Jamie went into the doc’s office to get the full story from Morgan.

  “After Barlow and his men and that actin’ marshal shot and roughed me up, they killed that whole family, Pa. Just rode up and shot them down. Killed everything. Horses, cows, dogs—everything that was alive. It was senseless.”

  “What was Barlow going to do with you, son?”

  “Bust me out of jail and hang me. It was all planned. I heard them talkin’ about it.”

  Jamie looked at the doctor. “How bad is he?”

  “He’ll live. Bullet went clean through the fleshy part of his shoulder and out the back. Another bullet went through the upper part of the back of his thigh without doing much damage. Mister MacCallister, Ben Barlow has anywhere from fifty to seventy-five tough hands out at the Bar-B, and that’s not counting his foreman Nick Geer or his top hand Miles Swift. Or his sons Ben, Jr., Royal, Chris, Guy, Hugh, and Andy. Big Ben came in here about twenty-five years ago, married a Mex woman of money and prestige and a lot of political influence. She died shortly after Andy was born. He actually owns about two hundred thousand acres. He claims God only knows how much more. He owns the next town down, that’s about twenty miles south of here, and claims everything around it as far as the eye can see in any direction—and that’s standing on top of the highest mountain in four counties. Are you going to take on the whole damn bunch of them?”

  “Why not?” Jamie replied.

  * * *

  Jamie and his sons, except for Morgan, went to the general store and bought double-barreled 12-gauge shotguns, then sawed the barrels down to about fifteen inches from the breech. They stuffed their pockets full of shotgun shells and then ordered food sent over to the doctor’s office so they could eat and talk to Morgan.

  “Ben Barlow’s ranch house is halfway between here and that little no-name town where they held me for a time,” Morgan said. “So he should be here in about an hour. Ian, you stack mattresses and such over this front window to soak up the lead. Leave me a place to shoot from. That’s my revolving shotgun over yonder in the corner. Matt, fetch me my Colts and my rifle. Thank you.”

  Morgan eased himself into a more comfortable position. “Now, then, I can probably tell you how Big Ben will ride in. He’s a man who places a lot of importance on being king of the hill. So he might gather all his hands in a bunch and ride in like some fancy general, showin’ off all his strength. Then they’ll all go over yonder to the saloon and drink for a time, waitin’ to see what you and the boys will do. If you don’t do nothin’, when they all get their snoots full of Who Hit John, they’ll come out shootin’ at anything that moves. He might do it that way.”

  “Describe Ben Barlow,” Jamie said.

  “Big as you are, Pa. Ain’t no fat on him, ’ceptin’ for his big mouth. He loves to hear himself talk. I ’spect he’s in his late forties or early fifties. I was sent in here by the army to do some snoopin’ on Ben. The government is just about to move in on him but they can’t get around some powerfu
l politician in Washington that Barlow’s got in his pocket. Some sleazy bastard name of Olmstead.”

  “Olmstead!” Jamie almost shouted the word.

  “Yeah. What’s wrong, Pa?”

  “That was your mother’s maiden name, boy. Have you forgotten? This Olmstead got a first name?”

  “Jubal.”

  “Damn! That’s your ma’s brother.”

  Matt called from the door. “Couple of hardcases driftin’ in from the south, Pa.”

  “I’m going out,” Jamie said. “When it starts, you boys be careful. Anything happen to any of you and your ma would skin me.”

  Jamie stepped outside onto the street and eyeballed the two riders. They were riding Bar-B horses and both men looked capable. Very capable. They dismounted, being careful to dismount with their eyes on Jamie.

  Jamie felt the Warrior’s Way take possession of him as he wondered whether these were part of the Bar-B group who shot his son and then stood by while the acting marshal and several other members of Barlow’s bunch beat him.

  Jamie stepped out into the wide street.

  The two Bar-B hands stopped their walking into the saloon and turned around.

  “You Bar-B trash looking for me?” Jamie called.

  Jamie could see the flush on their faces from where he stood.

  “Trash?” one of the hands called. “Us?”

  “You ride for Ben Barlow and the Bar-B, then that makes you lower than snake shit,” Jamie said. “Especially if you had anything to do with the shooting and the beating of my son.”

  “We ride for the brand, MacCallister,” one called. “And your son had no call comin’ in here and snoopin’ around.”

  “Every right,” Jamie contradicted. “Morgan works for the government, the government sent him in here, and unless you two are as ignorant as you look, most of the land Barlow claims as his belongs to the government.” Jamie didn’t know who the land belonged to, but he was mad clear through and pushing hard.

  “Something pulled Pa’s temper-trigger,” Morgan said.

  “He’s damn sure on the prod,” Matt said.

  “I ain’t never seen Pa hook and draw,” Ian said. “I think I’m quicker, but Pa never liked to show off, so I don’t know.”