This was his fight.
Kate knew from the look on his face when he rode up that something was dreadfully wrong. She sent one of Morgan’s children out the back door on the run to fetch his pa.
“What is it, Jamie?” she questioned.
“Pack me a bait of grub, Kate,” Jamie told her.
“The men after you . . . they’re coming, aren’t they, Jamie?”
“Four or five days out. There are too many of them, Kate. Far too many for us to handle here. I’ve got to slow them down. I’ve got to thin them out.”
“Jamie . . .”
“Listen to me, Kate. If they hit this town full strength none of you will stand a chance. Layfield is a madman. He’s insane with hate. He and his men will kill everything in sight. They’ll kill children and women alike—they’ll spare no one. This is my fight.” He put both hands on her slender shoulders. “Honey, there is no law near enough or strong enough to do us any good. The nearest army post is a hundred and fifty miles away. And this is a civilian matter . . . I’m not certain they would get involved. Kate, I’m not asking you to sing my death song. I don’t intend to ride off and get killed. I’ll be back. But I’ve got to cut the numbers down. While I’m doing that, this town can get ready to deal with the rest of them. I can’t stop them all. But I can damn sure hurt them some. Now go fix my food.” Jamie followed Kate’s eyes and turned.
Jamie Ian stood in the open doorway, big and solid. Morgan and Falcon and Matthew stood on the porch. “Don’t talk nonsense, Pa,” Jamie’s oldest son said. “You can’t face this bunch alone. Me and the boys will get our gear together.”
“Stand still, boy!” Jamie’s voice was sharp and commanding. “What you’ll do is what I tell you to do. This town has got to be preserved. But more important than the town are the people who make it so. The kids, the women, the elderly who can’t fight. I can buy you time to prepare for a fight. And I can cut down the odds considerably. Now start layin’ in food and ammunition and water. Fill the barrels, for there certainly will be fires to put out. Start fortifyin’ the homes and businesses and lay out defensive positions for the men. And don’t argue with me about this. I won’t stand still for it. Falcon, you go put the pack frame on Luke. He’s tough as a mountain goat and doesn’t spook. Your ma is goin’ to fix me some food. Now don’t stand there with your faces hangin’ out—move!”
The boys moved. They didn’t like it, but they did as their father ordered. Jamie dressed in old and worn but comfortable buckskins. He carefully cleaned and oiled his pistols. Two Colts around his waist, two on the saddle, left and right of the horn, and two more in his saddlebags. A dozen filled cylinders for the Colts. He loaded up two Henry rifles, one on the packhorse, one in his saddle boot.
“You old goat!” Hannah spoke from the barn door. “What you’re doing is foolish. You’re sixty years old, Jamie Ian MacCallister.”
“You don’t have to remind me of that, Quiet Woman,” Jamie said, using the name the Shawnee had called her. “I feel it on cold and rainy mornings. But when the sun shines, the age disappears like snow in the spring.” They both had unknowingly slipped back into the Shawnee tongue.
“I have put together my things. I will ride with you.”
“Now it is you who is foolish. You’re an old woman. Go home and let your children and grandchildren care for you in your last years.”
“Haw! How much you think you know and how little you really know, Man Who Is Not Afraid.” She thumped her chest. “I am just as much Shawnee as you. I can still ride and I can still shoot. You cannot stop me. I am nothing without Swede. Nothing. I am like an empty bowl. I will be behind you. I have spoken and that is that.” She stepped out of the barn and returned to her own home.
“Perhaps it is the best way,” Jamie muttered in Shawnee.
“What did you say, Pa?” Ellen Kathleen asked, stepping into the barn.
Before he could reply, Hannah’s singing came to them, a strange and sad chant.
“What is she singing, Pa? I never heard anything like that in my life.”
“Her death song, girl.”
“Her death song? Hannah is in good health. Doctor Tom says she is. What are you talkin’ about, Pa?”
“Things of which you do not and would not understand, girl. Go to the house and get my hat. I’ll pick it up there.”
“Your colonel’s hat, Pa?”
“No. The old brown one with the upturned brim.”
“The one with the feather in it, Pa?”
“You know which one I’m talkin’ about, girl. Now do it.”
Jamie fiddled around in the barn, stalling for time. His sons sat on the front porch of the big house with their mother. They listened to Hannah’s strange chanting and were all startled when she stepped out into the street wearing an old beaded buckskin dress and carrying a rifle.
“Ma!” Falcon hollered. “You got to see this. Something mighty queer is goin’ on.”
But Ellen Kathleen had entered the house through the back door and told her mother what Jamie had said. It did not come as any surprise to Kate.
“Leave her be, boys,” Kate called from the house. “She’s doing what she wants to do and feels she has to do.”
“Well, what the hell is she doin’?” Matthew asked in a low tone. “That song she’s chantin’ is givin’ me the boogers.”
“That’s her death song,” Ellen said, stepping out onto the porch, holding her pa’s old brown hat.
The townspeople had gathered on both ends of the street, staring at Hannah, listening to the strange chanting.
“What is that heathen sound?” Reverend Powell asked one of Abe Goldman’s sons. The merchant had died while Jamie was off in the war.
“I don’t know, sir. I never heard nothing like it.”
“Where’d she get that dress?” Rachel MacCallister asked. Rachel, one of Goldman’s granddaughters, and named after her mother, had married one of Jamie’s grandsons. “That’s an Indian dress.”
Virtually everyone in the valley was related, either by blood or marriage. A genealogist would be reduced to tears long before he figured out who was related to whom and how.
“That is her death song,” Tomas Nunez said. “She is riding with Señor MacCallister to meet the enemy.”
“But she’s an old woman!” Reverend Powell protested. “Besides, what she is doing is unChristian!”
“Charles,” his wife said.
“Yes, Claudia?”
“Shut up!”
Charles’ mouth clamped closed.
Kate stepped off the porch and went to Hannah. The two women embraced, and Kate returned to stand in front of her house. Hannah’s kids and grandkids stood silently on the porch of their mother’s house.
When Jamie came out of the barn, riding Lightning and leading the packhorse, Hannah lifted her rifle into the air and chanted, “lyiyiyiyiyi!”
Jamie spoke to her in Shawnee, and she swung into the saddle with a grace that belied her age. There was a strange smile on the woman’s face as she looked toward the graveyard where Swede was resting.
Jamie reached down and lifted Kate off the ground, kissing her soundly. “I’ll be back,” he said.
“You better,” Kate said, as Jamie lowered her to the ground. “If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you.”
Hannah had ridden out to the edge of town. She sat her horse and waited.
“This ain’t right, Pa,” Jamie Ian protested. “Hannah’s got kin and friends here. She can’t just ride off to die. She ain’t an Indian.”
“That’s where you’re dead wrong, boy,” Jamie told his oldest son. “We both have as much Indian in us as we do white.” Jamie nodded at his family, plopped his old hat on his head, and rode off.
“I don’t reckon I will ever understand Pa,” Falcon said.
“Get the town ready for a fight,” Kate said, her voice sharp and commanding. “Right now!”
The crowd scattered, and Kate stood for a time alone on the lo
ng front porch. She stood there until her man could no longer be seen. Then she walked into the house, into her kitchen, and started rolling out dough for bread. When that was done and the dough laid out to rise, Kate locked the front door and sat down in her chair and had herself a good cry.
35
Jamie rode off toward the east, with Hannah right beside him. The horse she rode was old, like Hannah, and Hannah was comfortable with the animal. Jamie knew why she chose that horse: horse and rider would die together. Jamie would bury them Indian fashion where they fell, with the horse’s tail tied to the tall burial platform and the body of the animal under the platform . . . if he was alive to do that.
Hannah was in her seventies, but she could still ride like the wind. She hummed as they rode; other times she wore a faint smile on her lips. Jamie would occasionally glance over at her, and their eyes would meet, a silent understanding passing between them. Rarely did they speak, and when they did, it was always in Shawnee.
Once, Hannah broke the long silence by saying, “It is good, this thing we do.”
“Yes. I have felt the years lifting off of me, flying away like eagles.”
“I, too.”
“Are you weary of this life, Quiet Woman?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I have birthed my children and seen them grow into fine men and women. I have loved my man with all my heart, and I wish to be with him again. Those who do not understand the Indian way would not understand that, would they?”
“Probably not. Most of them anyway. I was raised in the church back in Ohio Territory; I have vague memories of it. But I can’t warm to it now. It’s too harsh for my liking.”
“Do you ever think of the life after this one?”
“I didn’t used to. But I do now.” He pointed. “We’ll camp up ahead. I know a good spot.”
* * *
The man who now called himself Cord Woodson had won a sizeable pot from some miners and was now sipping whiskey and playing solitaire when a couple of dusty travelers walked into the saloon and bellied up to the long bar. They ordered whiskey with a beer chaser, and after drinking the first mug down to knock the dust from their throats, they took another full mug of beer and the bottle of whiskey over to a table and sat down.
“There’s gonna be some big doin’s down to that old boom town south of here, boys,” one of the riders said. “Some tin soldier name of Aaron Layfield has got him a colonel’s commission from the U.S. government to take care of the Indian problem here in Colorado. But before he does that, he gonna clean Jamie MacCallister’s clock, so he says.”
Cord’s eyes turned as cold as the North Sea. He laid down the deck of cards and listened.
“Seems as though Jamie has some old warrants out on him. Personal, I don’t think they’re worth the paper they’re writ on, but until some high-up muckedy muck judge in Washington say they ain’t no good, Jamie’s got him a fight on his hands. Me and my pard here is fixin’ to ride down that way and get us a good seat up in the hills. We both got field glasses, and we intend to see what Jamie does up agin a couple of hundred men.”
“A couple of hundred men?” Someone tossed out the question. “Did you say a couple of hundred men?”
“That’s right. But that ain’t all. They’s another group of manhunters comin’ up behind the first bunch. Maybe a day or two behind them. I’m tellin’ you, boys. This here is shapin’ up to be the grandest fight since Bull Run. An’ I ain’t about to miss it.” He looked at his partner. “Come on, Pete. Drink up and let’s get them supplies and get gone. We want to find us a good and safe spot to eyeball this fracas.”
The two riders finished off their second beer, grabbed the bottle of whiskey and stood up.
“Wait a minute!” a miner said. “Just hold on. Where did you say this fight was gonna be?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know for shore,” the second rider holding the bottle of whiskey said. “But the logical place, if you look at a map, would be that no-name town about fifty miles south of here. You know, where the vein played out after about six or seven months.”
“Yeah. They had just started callin’ that place Bell City. Is that the place?”
“That’s the place.”
“But why there?” another asked.
The first rider shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. But that’s where everyone I jawed with says it’s gonna take place. Don’t ask me why.”
Several men rushed outside right behind the two riders, scurrying about to get supplies. Cord sat for a moment, idly shuffling the cards. Then he smiled, tossed the deck on the table, and stood up.
“You aren’t leavin’, are you, Mister Woodson?” one of the bartenders asked. “Don’t forget your card game at four o’clock.”
“I won’t be able to make that game, Clarence,” Cord said. “I just remembered I have an appointment.” He paused by the batwings, his face a study. “Clarence, should I not return, you can have all my clothing and other personal items.”
“Say what?” the bartender asked.
“We’re about the same size, so they should fit you well.”
“Why . . . thank you kindly, sir. But why would you not return, Mister Woodson?”
“Oh,” Cord said with a smile, “call it a hunch. Just say I played out my hand.” He laughed. “Yes. That’s a good one.” Laughing, Cord shoved open the batwings and stepped out onto the boardwalk.
* * *
Preacher and Smoke Jensen were just settling down to coffee, stew and pan bread when a voice called out, hailing their camp. “I’m plumb friendly, boys. And that stew do set my mouth to salivatin’. I got some canned peaches that’d go right well with that stew.”
“So come on in, providin’ peaches is all you got in your hands,” Preacher called into the gathering twilight. “I’d shore hate to kill a man by mistake. Why, hell, I’d probably fret about that the rest of the night. Might keep me awake, and I’m a man who enjoys his sleep.”
Smoke pointed to Preacher and then to a spot by the fire. “I’m Smoke and that’s Preacher. Stew will be ready in a few minutes. Sit.”
The man sat—Cautiously, for he knew the reputations of both Preacher and the young gunfighter called Smoke. And they were both quick on the shoot.
“Coffee’s ready,” Preacher said. “Providin’ you got a cup.”
“I do have that,” the man said. “They call me Tin-Pan. You boys heard the news?”
“What news?” Smoke asked, putting those cold young/old eyes on the stranger.
“You know where Bell City is?”
“I know where ever’ rock is in Colorado,” Preacher said. “I know ever’ spring, ever’ crick, ever’ tree, and ever’ valley. Course I know where that is. What about it?”
“Gonna be a big shoot-out there, so I hear. They’s about six or seven hundred men comin’ in from the east to kill Jamie Ian MacCallister.”
“You don’t say?” Preacher filled the man’s cup. “Why would they want to be doin’ that?”
“Don’t rightly know. Way it was told to me, it has somethin’ to do with the war. Some sort of a grudge.”
“Bell City, hey?” Preacher asked.
“Yep. Folks is comin’ in from all over to get them a good seat. But not me. I don’t want to be nowheres around when that much lead starts flyin’.”
“Bell City isn’t that far from here,” Smoke said.
“That’s right, boy,” Preacher replied. “It shore ain’t.”
“Ain’t you a pard of MacCallister?” Tin-Pan asked.
“Been knowin’ the man for over forty years. He’s a real nice feller, Jamie is.”
“When is this fight supposed to take place?” Smoke asked.
“ ’Bout four days from now, I heard.”
“Ummm,” Preacher said. He cut his eyes to Smoke Jensen, and they both smiled.
* * *
The old mountain man and scout called Sparks (a distant relative of Captain Sparks from Texas, who had ridd
en with Jamie’s Marauders during the war) sat by his fire in the high-up and mulled over the rumor he had just heard from some miners.
“ ’Bout a thousand or so men all comin’ together down near Bell City to kill Jamie MacCallister,” they had told him.
“A thousand men?” Sparks had questioned.
“That’s what we heard.”
“Yeah,” another miner spoke up. “I reckon this is the end for Jamie Ian MacCallister.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Sparks replied.
“They’s some old woman ridin’ with MacCallister,” the third man in the party said. “A white woman totin’ a rifle, and she’s ’pposed to be all dressed up like an Injun.” He shook his head and poured another cup of coffee. “The whole thing sounds like a made-up story to me.”
Huddled by his tiny fire, Sparks decided he’d pull out at dawn and just take him a little ride down toward Bell City. There just might be some truth in what the miners said.
* * *
“Git your possibles together, you little shrimp,” Lobo told Audie. “And leave them goddamn Shakyspear books behind. We got some ridin’ to do.”
“I am quite comfortable here,” the little man said. “Why should I leave such restful and untroubled surroundings to go wandering off with the disreputable likes of you?”
“ ’Cause we been wanderin’ off together for near ’bouts forty goddamn years, you hard-headed field mouse!”
Audie stared up at the huge old mountain man. “Something is terribly wrong, Lobo. What is it?”
Lobo told him.
Audie stood up, all four feet of him. “Thousands of men coming after Jamie?”
“That’s what I heared.”
“I shall be but a moment, you prehistoric throwback. During the interim, you may saddle my mount for me.”
“Is there anything else you’d like for me to do for you, you little turd?”
“Would you consider bathing?”
“I took a bath last month!”
“It was just a thought, a fleeting hope. Forget it. Stay downwind.”
* * *
An old Nez Perce warrior called Night Stalker heard the rumors about the men coming to kill Jamie MacCallister. Back in ’43, he had played a good trick on Preacher and Sparks and Jamie, the story was still told around the camp fires about how he had fooled the men into thinking he was a Sasquatch.8
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