Scream of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Getting water from the spring, Jamie doused the fire, and the smoldering remains of Ollie, and then dug a common grave under a huge old tree. Into the tree, Jamie carved the words HERE LIES FOUR KILLERS.

  Then he mounted up and rode away. He did not look back.

  * * *

  Four days after the shooting in Southern Idaho, a wild-eyed Lloyd, who was heading south, met the gang of adventurers and reporters and what-have-you on the trail as they traveled north.

  “It was awful!” he blurted out his tale of woe. “Me and my pards was just sittin’ around the fire, drinkin’ coffee and jawin’ when MacCallister just stepped out of the brush and started shootin’.”

  “What’s your name?” asked a man who had joined the group along the way.

  “Lloyd Jones.”

  The man spurred his horse close and held up a badge. “I’m Pat Riordan. Federal marshal. You’re under arrest for murder, rape, bank robbery, mail robbery, and anything else I might be able to dig up on you.”

  “What?” Lloyd screamed.

  “I’ll be damned if that’s so!” Bob Jones, Lloyd’s older brother, yelled, startling everybody. He jerked a hogleg from under his coat and blew the marshal out of the saddle. “Ride, brother, ride!” he shouted.

  The two of them left in a cloud of dust.

  “My word!” Fifi said, fanning herself with her hat.

  A couple of reporters jumped down to aid the marshal, who had been shot in the side. “I can ride,” the marshal said grimly, getting to his feet. “Now maybe you goddamn reporters will understand why marshals and sheriffs out here ain’t interfering with Jamie’s hunt. Them he’s huntin’ ain’t worth the gunpowder it would take to blow their brains out. Far as I’m concerned, MacCallister is doing the country a favor. Personal, I hope he kills ever’ damn one of them. Now get out of my way. I got to ride back to town and find a doctor.”

  The stunned group watched him ride back south.

  “This just might turn out to be a much more interesting trip than we originally thought,” a reporter said.

  I certainly hope so, Ben Franklin Washington silently wished.

  * * *

  Jamie had vanished.

  Not one sighting of him was reported the rest of the summer. After he had buried the four killers, Jamie headed north, riding across the Snake River Plain and into the Sawtooth Range of Idaho. There, he holed up for two months, hunting and fishing and staying low.

  As autumn began painting the landscape with multicolored hues, many of the reporters returned to their home cities. There was just nothing to report about Jamie Ian MacCallister. But two of the reporters, those who had taken the time to research the background of Jamie, knew what Jamie was doing: playing the waiting game. Lawrence Douglas and Thomas Connor stayed.

  Ben Franklin Washington also stayed. Ludlow, Farnsworth, and Bennett had to stay, too, for their fathers had told them they had, by God, better bring back comprehensive reports on the feasibility of buying property, mining interests, and so forth. Their lady friends remained with them. The photographer, Pendroy, stayed, as did the artist, Bob Mark, and the writer, John A. Bellingham. The valets, cooks, and gofers were dismissed, as were the bodyguards.

  The so-called “guides,” Hank and Newby, pulled out one morning and were not seen again.

  On a quiet Saturday afternoon, September, 1870, Jamie rode into a small settlement in Southwestern Montana. The town consisted of a general store, a saloon, a crude livery, and a combination barbershop, bathhouse, boardinghouse, and cafe. The closest law was nearly a hundred miles away.

  Jamie was looking to resupply, enjoy a hot bath and a shave (his beard was really beginning to itch), and have a meal prepared by someone else. He had no way of knowing that some of the Miles Nelson gang had the same thought.

  He gave no name as he rented a room at the boardinghouse, and was asked for none. He was told by the woman who rented the rooms that supper would be ready at five-thirty and served no later than six-thirty.

  Lounging in a huge tub of hot soapy water, Jamie passed the time reading newspapers that were anywhere from three weeks to three months old. But it was still news to him. Since he had left his valley, Wyoming had given the vote and the right to hold office to women. Two months later, Utah Territory did the same. Five years after the Civil War, Texas was readmitted to the Union. He was about to close up the newspaper when he noticed a small article in the back section of the Boston paper. The reporter’s name was what caught his attention: Ben Franklin Washington.

  He carefully read the article.

  It was about Jamie’s manhunt, and the dateline was three weeks back in Salt Lake City.

  “Paper got here quick,” Jamie muttered, as he stepped out of the tub and began drying off.

  While he bathed and had a shave and a haircut and a beard trim, he had a woman from the boardinghouse brush off and air out and then iron his spare set of go-to-town clothes. They were hanging just outside the bathhouse. Jamie dressed and walked over to the saloon for a drink and to listen to some talk from the locals.

  There were a dozen men in the saloon, most of them ranch hands by their look, and a couple of tired-looking Soiled Doves. All heads turned as Jamie walked to the bar, for he was a stranger in town and got a good once-over from the locals.

  “I’ll just be damned!” one older cowboy muttered, quickly dropping his gaze.

  “You know that man?” his partner asked.

  “Yeah. I shore do. That’s Jamie MacCallister. I rode through his valley some twenty years ago, whilst I was scoutin’ for the army. He treated us right nice. Him and his pretty wife. Hell, the whole valley of folks was friendly and nice.”

  “Then it was his wife the Miles Nelson gang? . . .” The cowboy trailed that off.

  “Yeah. And that ol’ war hoss over there is on the prod for them. I hear tell he’s already killed eight or ten of ’em. I wouldn’t want that man on my trail.”

  “Did he really fight at the Alamo?”

  “He damn shore did.”4

  “And when he was just a tadpole, he was kidnapped and raised by Injuns?”

  “Yep. Shawnees. They named him Man Who Is Not Afraid.”

  “Hell, Davy. That man’s a legend!”

  “Shore is.”

  Jamie sipped his whiskey. It was the first drink he’d had in a couple of months, and he enjoyed the warmth of it.

  The barkeep walked back to where Jamie stood and faced him, the bar between them. “Say, I know you. You’re Jamie Ian MacCallister!”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, Bless Pat! It’s a pleasure to serve you, Mr. MacCallister.” He pushed the coin Jamie had laid on the bar back toward him. “No charge, sir. That one’s on the house.”

  Jamie smiled and thanked him. One by one, the men in the saloon rose to walk over to the bar to shake Jamie’s hand and have a moment of conversation with him. This would be something they could brag about the rest of their lives.

  All but one.

  The grim-faced and unshaven man sat alone at his table and glared open and undisguised hate at Jamie. Some years back, one of MacCallister’s boys, Matthew was his name, he thought, or it might have been Falcon, killed his brother over a dispute involving cards during a game of draw poker.

  Now would be a real good time to settle that score. He reckoned one MacCallister was as good as the next one. The man poured another drink of courage and swallowed it down, then pushed back his chair and swept back his coat, clearing the butt of his gun.

  “No trouble in here, Finlay!” the barkeep said sharply.

  “You go right straight to hell,” Finlay said. “I got me a score to settle with that man yonder. Turn and face me, MacCallister.”

  Finlay? Jamie thought. The name meant nothing to him.

  “I said turn around and face me, MacCallister!”

  Five men had just ridden into the tiny town and reined up at the crude livery.

  Jamie turned around slowly, the glass o
f whiskey in his left hand. His right hand hung close to the butt of his Colt.

  The five men, all wearing long dusters, began their walk to the saloon.

  “You got a problem, mister?” Jamie asked the man.

  “Yeah, I do. One of your cotton-headed bastard sons killed my brother. Now I’m gonna kill you.”

  “Killed him over what?”Jamie asked easily.

  Ten boots clumped against the rough boardwalk. Ten spurs jingled and jangled.

  “He shot him dead durin’ a card game in a minin’ camp.”

  Falcon, Jamie thought with a smile.

  “You think that’s funny?” Finlay demanded.

  “I’m sure your brother didn’t,” Jamie replied, the old wild recklessness rearing up strong within him.

  The five outlaws stood outside the batwings of the saloon, brushing the trail dust from their clothing and loosening the guns in their holsters.

  “What the hell do you want me to do about it?” Jamie asked, a hardness to his tone. “Raise him from the grave? I can’t do that. Now why don’t you just sit down and be quiet. You’ll live a lot longer.”

  “I’m gonna kill you, MacCallister.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Somebody might, someday. But I’ve got things to do and places to go before that happens. Now sit down, Finlay, before your ass overloads your mouth.”

  The batwings were pushed open, and the five outlaws stepped into the bar.

  “Draw, MacCallister!” Finlay shouted, his hand closing around the butt of his gun.

  “MacCallister!” one of the Miles Nelson gang yelled.

  The saloon erupted in lead and gunsmoke.

  5

  Jamie dropped the glass of whiskey and pulled his left-hand Colt, drilling Finlay first. The bullet took the man in the center of the chest and knocked him backward against the wall. Turning toward the knot of outlaws at the batwings, Jamie began thumbing back the hammers of his guns and pulling the triggers.

  Cowboys were hitting the floor to escape the ever-growing hail of lead that whistled and howled above their heads.

  Jamie dropped to one knee to present a smaller target as the gang members began spreading out along the front wall.

  Jamie put two outlaws on the floor in the first five seconds of the gunfight. The saloon was filled with thick gunsmoke as a third joined his buddies on the barroom floor. The two remaining members decided the best thing for them to do was get the hell gone from there.

  One jumped through the big window in the front of the saloon, and the other nearly tore off the batwings in his haste to depart the scene.

  Quickly reloading, Jamie ran out the back door and circled around, coming out ahead of the men. One was on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, the other standing by the hitch rail in the street.

  Jamie recognized Curly Mack by the long scar running down the left side of his face.

  Jamie added a bullet hole to that disfiguration, and Curly Mack’s outlawing days were over.

  Carter Boyd cussed Jamie wildly and began pouring the lead his way from both guns. Jamie went down to one knee, carefully took aim, and fired, the bullet striking Carter in the center of his forehead. Carter dropped like a rock, falling face forward into the street.

  Stillness enveloped the tiny town as a gentle breeze began blowing away the gunsmoke. Jamie rose slowly to his boots and began reloading his Colts.

  The saloon emptied, the cowboys and locals crowding the boardwalk to stand and stare. The two Soiled Doves took that time to rifle the pockets of the dead and dying outlaws lying on the saloon floor. They had just begun frantically tearing at the thick money belts when Jamie walked in.

  “Take what’s in their pockets,” he told the whores. “Leave the money belts alone. That’s stolen money.”

  The Doves stood up and backed away.

  Jamie looked over at Finlay. The man was still alive, but not for long. He was blowing pink bubbles, and that was an accurate signal he was lung shot. Jamie walked over to him and knelt down.

  “My brother always did think he was foolin’ people when he cheated,” Finlay gasped. “But he wasn’t worth a damn at it. I should have left well enough alone, I reckon.”

  “You know any of those men who jumped into our play?” Jamie asked.

  “Two of ’em. Boyd and Curly Mack. Did you get them all?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re good, MacCallister. I’ll give you that much.” He coughed up blood. “Do me a good turn?”

  “If I can.”

  “You can. You kilt me. You owe me that much. I got money sewed into the linin’ of my left boot. Inside. You see to it I get planted proper?”

  “I will. You have any kin you want me to notify?”

  But Finlay couldn’t reply. He was dead.

  Jamie stood up and stared down at the man for a few seconds. How many dead men had he looked at who were made that way by his hand? He had stopped counting a long time back. And how old had he been when he killed his first man? Not very old, he recalled.

  “You all right, Mr. MacCallister?” a local softly inquired.

  Jamie looked at the citizen. “All right? Yes, I’m all right.” He pointed to Finlay’s left boot. “He has money sewn in there. He wanted a proper burying.”

  “He’ll get it. How about the others?”

  Jamie shrugged his shoulders. “I really don’t give a damn what you do with them.”

  * * *

  It was late September when the reporters learned of the shoot-out in Montana. By now they were wising up and made no plans to travel there; Jamie would be long gone. Much to the chagrin of Russell Clay, the reporters had shifted their base to Denver, where there were telegraph and rail services around the clock—and more social activities available.

  Russell Clay was now virtually a prisoner in his own home. Not only did he have to worry about his niece, Page, recognizing him; now he had Ben Franklin Washington, his nosey, snoopy nephew, to worry about.

  Because Russell had paid informants scattered around the growing city, he knew what was going on almost before it happened. He knew that Lloyd Jones and his now outlaw older brother, Bob, were hanging around Denver’s seedy section. He sent one of his most trusted men to arrange a meeting. Russell had made up his mind on how best to deal with the problem of his sister’s half-breed children.

  * * *

  In San Francisco, Page’s mother, presumed dead but very much alive and well and living under the name of Andrea Petri, read the reports from her hired detectives and at first had smiled. The smiles quickly changed to frowns as she read on.

  Her daughter, Page, and her husband, James William Haywood, the grandson of Jamie MacCallister, had settled in Denver and were well and happy. What brought on the frowns was that her brother, Roscoe, was also living in the city and living under the name of Russell Clay. Andrea knew her brother well, and was well aware that if he felt threatened, he would not hesitate to kill to protect his identity. To make matters worse, Page’s nappy-headed brother, Ben Franklin Washington, was also in Denver, snooping around and asking questions. It was only a matter of time before he put everything together and went public with it. That would ruin Page’s life.

  Andrea couldn’t have that.

  Would not have that.

  She should have killed the nigger-looking brat at birth. She had long regretted that she hadn’t done just that.

  She sent for some of the thugs she kept on her payroll. She would take care of this matter once and for all.

  Permanently.

  Mid-October. Valley, Colorado.

  “Pa’s struck again,” Matthew said, holding up the week-old newspaper. “Listen.” He read the account of the Montana shoot-out to his brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and what-have-you.

  Falcon smiled as his brother finished the reading. “Pa ain’t slowed down a bit, has he? Took out six in one whack. That ol’ he-coon is still a war-hoss.”

  “Well, now, that’s a hell of a way to talk abo
ut your feather,” Jamie Ian, Jr., admonished his younger brother.

  Falcon shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Wasn’t no disrespect meant, brother. Anyway, I meant to tell y’all, I’m fixin’ to take me a ride to Denver. Keep an eye on Marie and the kids while I’m gone, will you?”

  “That goes without asking, stupid!” his sister Joleen told him.

  Falcon grinned at her and jauntily tipped his hat.

  Joleen stuck out her tongue and took a swipe at him that Falcon easily ducked.

  Laughing, Falcon left the living room of his brother’s house and pulled out for Denver within the hour.

  * * *

  Jamie’s arrival in Elko, Nevada, didn’t turn many a head—not at first—but the sheriff noticed him riding in, as did the town marshal. Both of them headed straight for the telegraph office.

  The Central Railroad had reached Elko in ’68, and the town fast became a drop-off and pick-up point for all the freight coming in for the region’s mines. The area boasted large cattle ranches, and sheep were also being introduced, herded by Basque sheepmen. Before the two factions learned to coexist, and they would, eventually, a lot of blood would be spilled on both sides.

  But Jamie was not interested in local squabbles and had no intention of getting involved in them. He was looking for three men he had been told were hanging around the town: Red Johnson, Waddy Keeton, and Bob Perlich.

  Jamie’s hunt had been going on for months now, and the outlaws were well aware they were being hunted, and knew that Jamie had killed about fifteen of their gang. That news was making many of them surly and very, very edgy. To a man, they’d all had detectives from Wells Fargo, the Pinkerton’s, bounty hunters, county sheriffs, and federal marshals after them, but no one had ever followed them with the bulldog tenacity of Jamie Ian MacCallister.

  It was downright irritating.

  The county sheriff and the town marshal both had dodgers on most of the men in the Miles Nelson gang, and they knew that the names of Red, Waddy, and Bob were among those wanted posters. Trouble was, the dodgers didn’t have a drawing of the men, the men weren’t going by those names, and none of the three had caused any trouble in Elko.