Eyes of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  The wind picked up and Jamie used its soft sound to quickly reload his pistols. A dry twig snapped to his left. Moving only his eyes, Jamie could just make out the shape of a man, standing rock still after his foot had snapped the twig. He was about twenty-five feet away from the brush Jamie was hiding in. The Shawnee would be silently cursing himself for that bad move. The warrior moved and when he did it was sudden. One second he was there, the next instant he was gone.

  Returning his eyes to the front, Jamie watched as a dark shape came over the bank of the offshoot and was gone. Tall Bull, and Jamie was certain it had been Tall Bull, had found his moccasins tracks in the soft earth and sand and knew approximately where he was.

  When the second dark shape materialized for only a moment, his head and upper torso exposed, Jamie fired one pistol and instantly came out of the brush, running hard for the bank. But he had missed his target. The shot had caused the Shawnee to belly down, however, and Jamie leaped over him and into the water. He jumped for the far bank, ran a few yards, and then was out of the watercourse and onto dry land. He ran for a clump of trees and bellied down, catching his breath while his eyes searched the darkness and his ears were attuned for any sound.

  Escape was out of the question. The dispatch pouch was under his saddle and Tall Bull would have left one warrior at the camp site. This was a fight to the finish, and Jamie felt that Tall Bull realized it, too.

  He shoved his pistols behind his belt and quickly checked his rifle. A shadow movement across the offshoot caught his attention and Jamie lifted the rifle to his shoulder. The shot would give away his position, but Jamie knew he had to cut down the odds. When the shadow became a man, Jamie fired. A choking scream told him his ball had flown true. He reloaded and waited.

  If his attackers had been any other but Tall Bull, they would have more than likely given up this fight, for the Indian saw no percentage in taking this many losses. There was always another day. But this was Tall Bull; this was personal. This was a fight to the finish.

  Jamie was in a good position; probably the best defensive position he could have chosen. The river twisted here, the water to his left and right and back. Tall Bull and however many he had left, must now attack from the front. Jamie made himself as comfortable as possible and waited.

  Jamie was alert, whatever sleep he had gotten refreshing him. He had his rifle and two pistols, and ample shot and powder. But his bow and quiver of arrows was back in camp. Jamie now felt there had been twelve in the attacking band. Tall Bull, Little Wolf, Bad Leg, and nine others. Six were dead, one wounded. He faced five.

  “We can wait,” came the strong voice of Tall Bull. “Forever if it comes to that.”

  Jamie made no reply and knew the Indian expected none. Tall Bull and the one other older warrior would be the hardest to kill. They would have the patience that Little Wolf and Bad Leg did not possess. Bad Leg was basically a coward. But that was not necessarily a good thing for Jamie, for cowards, when cornered, can be formidable and dangerous foes.

  “The road is miles north from here,” Tall Bull went on. “There are no farms or villages within a day’s ride. There is no one to help you, Man Who Is Not Afraid. So now is the time to be afraid.”

  Jamie heard the giggling of Bad Leg. “Now I know why you brought him along, Tall Bull,” he called. “Does Deer Women know you share your blankets with the likes of Bad Leg?”

  Bad Leg immediately began cursing Jamie and Jamie pulled his rifle to his shoulder. From the sound of his voice, there was only one place Bad Leg could be, and that was behind a small clump of bushes that stood out even in the darkness. Jamie squeezed the trigger, then quickly began reloading.

  Horrible screaming erupted from those bushes and Jamie could just make out the shape of Bad Leg as he stumbled to his moccasins. He lurched forward in a peculiar hunching movement. His screaming became more of a wild shrieking. He staggered along, crying out for help. But Jamie knew that no one would expose themselves. Bad Leg was on his own. Bad Leg fell down to his knees in the dirt. He seemed to be holding his lower belly.

  Bad Leg hurled foul curses at Jamie for a moment, and then toppled over to one side. He lay there, moaning.

  “And then there were three,” Jamie called, during a respite in Bad Leg’s moaning.

  “His medicine is very good this night,” Deer Runner whispered to Tall Bull. They were behind a jumble of old logs piled there by floodwaters years back.

  “Perhaps too good,” Tall Bull said. “But if I must die in order to kill Man Who Is Not Afraid... so be it.”

  “I am ready,” Deer Runner said.

  “We are nearing old men,” Tall Bull whispered. “There is much more behind us than what lies in front of us. I think this night will be a good night to die.”

  “If any night is a good night,” Deer Runner replied, rolling his eyes at the darkness. “Perhaps if we are killed together, our spirits will wander together?”

  “I would like that, old friend. I cannot think of another warrior I would rather have with me through the eternal years.”

  Bad Leg began shrieking more loudly than before, thrashing about in the dirt.

  “He is shot in the lower belly,” Tall Bull said. “His death will be long and painful, and he is not dying well at all.”

  “Did you really expect him to die well?”

  “No. He was always a fool and is dying like one. Little Wolf will die no better,” he added, disgust in his voice.

  “Why should he? He does not have your blood in his veins.”

  “True.” Tall Bull sighed. “I adopted two sons. Both of them failed me.”

  “You love him, don’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “Man Who Is Not Afraid.”

  Tall Bull was silent for moment. “Yes,” he spoke the word very softly. “And it is because of that love that I must kill him.”

  “Or be killed,” Deer Runner said.

  Tall Bull was thinking of his wife’s vision when he replied, “Only the mountains never die.”

  Forty-five

  By midafternoon on the day the Alamo fell, the bodies had been separated and the defenders of the Alamo were placed on huge funeral pyres. There was a layer of wood, then a layer of bodies, the bodies and wood soaked with grease and oil. There were half a dozen or more of the pyres, all of them much higher than a man’s head.

  Just before the torches were thrown onto the pyres, Santa Anna said, “This will teach those damn Texans a thing a two. This is the only kind of independence they’ll ever get!”

  The torches were hurled onto the pyres and the smell of burning flesh was so overpowering the men were forced to move back some distance in an effort to escape the odor.

  “These damn Texans are offensive to me even in death,” Santa Anna said, holding a white handkerchief to his nose.

  Another bunch of Texas volunteers would prove to be a whole hell of a lot more offensive to him in about six weeks time. At a place called San Jacinto, where the Texas Army, under the command of Sam Houston, would wipe out Santa Anna’s entire command and, a few days later, force the arrogant Santa Anna to accept unconditional surrender.

  But on this late afternoon, Santa Anna gave Susanna Dickerson a horse, some provisions, and a black man who had been serving as his cook to go along as escort. He told her to ride to Gonzales with this message: “Tell the citizens there what happened here at the Alamo. Tell those people to never again rise up in rebellion against me. Now, go!”

  Susanna would be found, some six or seven days later, by a group of Texas scouts who were on their way to the Alamo to see what had happened there.

  * * *

  Just about forty-five minutes before dawn, during the darkest hour, Jamie heard the three remaining Shawnees coming for him. Bad Leg had died a few hours before, whimpering and sobbing and still begging for someone to come to his aid. Just before he died, he cursed his friends for deserting him.

  Jamie had to make the loads in his pistols and rifle true
ones, for when the rush came, there would be no time for reloading. He made certain his Bowie knife was at hand, for he felt — no, he knew — the final minutes, and maybe seconds, would be knife to knife, and probably with Tall Bull, one of the most skilled knife handlers Jamie had ever known, outside of Jim Bowie.

  Something flitted to Jamie’s left, casting a quick shadow. But the move brought no gunfire from Jamie, for he knew it was a ruse. Many whites felt the Indian to be stupid, or dumb. Jamie knew better. They were some of the finest fighting men on the face of the earth. If he had fallen for that maneuver, that quick shadow, and fired, he would more than likely be dead, for he knew that at least two rifles were pointing at him.

  He waited.

  Jamie had changed positions earlier, and had replied to none of the probing questions from Tall Bull, Deer Runner, and Little Wolf since then. He had darkened his face and hands with dirt and had put himself in the least likely spot; the one that offered only the barest of protection, right at the northern edge of the clump of trees. And whoever it was coming in from the north was very nearly on him.

  Deer Runner. And he was moving as silently as a ghost, making only inches of headway at each forward move. Jamie could make out only part of the man’s features, but enough to see the long scar that ran from Deer Runner’s eyebrow down to the point of his jaw.

  Jamie’s hand was on his knife, on the ground, and he brought it up swiftly and powerfully, the cutting edge up, and nearly took Deer Runner’s head off. Just as the knife impacted against flesh, a rifle roared and Jamie felt a white hot burst of pain in his left shoulder. Using his feet, he pushed himself back, deeper into the heavier growth. It was a good move, for a second rifle roared and the ball slammed into the tree where, only seconds before, Jamie had been.

  Jamie pulled out a bandanna and stuffed it under his buckskins, plugging the bullet hole and slowing the bleeding as best he could. He sheathed his knife and waited, gritting his teeth against the waves of pain. He felt the slow flow of blood wetting his flesh. His fingers felt about the base of the tree and found some moss. He pulled some loose and placed it, he hoped, under his buckskin shirt at his back, where the ball had torn through. He knew the pain he was feeling now was nothing compared to what it would be when the shock wore off.

  Silver was showing in the eastern sky when Little Wolf seemed to come out of nowhere and made his leap for Jamie. Jamie lifted a pistol and shot him. Little Wolf landed on top of him, his knife slicing Jamie’s left leg from just below the hip down to almost his knee. Jamie kicked the Shawnee off him and tore Little Wolfs shirt to use to bandage his leg. He could not tell how deep the knife had penetrated, but it felt like a serious wound. He bound it tight and quickly reloaded his discharged pistol.

  “Just the two of us now, Man Who Is Not Afraid,” Tall Bull’s voice reached him. “I felt sure Little Wolf would fail, but I was confident that Deer Runner would take you.”

  “You were right about one and wrong about the other,” Jamie said.

  “Something has changed in your voice. I think you are badly hurt.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot better than you’re going to be, Tall Bull.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re going to be dead.”

  Tall Bull chuckled. “I taught you well, my son.”

  “That you did, father. And I thank you for it.”

  Tall Bull’s laugh held no humor. “Perhaps I taught you too well.”

  “We’ll soon know, won’t we?”

  “That is true.”

  Jamie could tell with each reply that Tall Bull was slowly working his way closer. He was in the cluster of trees now. Jamie did not know if he could stand up; did not know if his wounded leg would support him. But he did know he was now no match for Tall Bull if it came to hand to hand with knives. He had to shoot him; had to get lead into the man. Tall Bull was an enormously powerful man, perhaps not as powerful as he’d been when Jamie was a child in the Shawnee town, but Jamie knew if Tall Bull ever got his hands on him, the fight was over — and Jamie would be the loser.

  Tall Bull made only one mistake in his deadly advance: he waited too long to make his move. The skies were growing lighter by the minute and Jamie’s eyes were sharp. He saw a lower branch move and a brown hand reach up to still it. Jamie put a heavy caliber ball right through that hand. Tall Bull made no sound, even though Jamie knew the pain must have been awful, for he’d seen the sudden splash of bright red color the dead leaves.

  Jamie laid that pistol aside and picked up his second pistol, muffling the cocking with his left hand. Waves of agony lanced through him when he moved his left arm and bright lights of pain erupted behind his eyes.

  Tall Bull burst out of the brush running hard. There was a knife in his left hand, his ruined right hand dangling and dripping blood, and a wild cry on his lips. His face was pure savage and his eyes were alive with victory.

  Jamie lifted his pistol and shot Tall Bull in the chest, watching as if events had suddenly slowed down to only a fraction of life’s speed. Tall Bull stopped and looked down at the hole in his chest, just below the V of his rib cage. Blood was pouring out.

  “Iiiyyee!” he cried. “I died at the hands of a true warrior!” He stumbled forward and fell, the knife driving deep into Jamie’s side.

  For just a few seconds, the eyes of Jamie and Tall Bull met. Tall Bull gasped, “My son! My son! Only Man Above knows how much I loved you.”

  “You sure picked a funny way to show it,” Jamie said, just as darkness began to take him.

  “Deer Woman was right,” Tall Bull whispered, lowering his head to Jamie’s chest. “She said I would not return.”

  “So we both lost the war,” Jamie’s voice was very weak.

  “Both sides always do,” the Shawnee chief said, as his eyes and the eyes of Jamie Ian MacCallister closed and they were spun whirling into a world of shadows.

  Forty-six

  Little Wolf crawled to his knees and staggered toward the river to splash water on his wounds and try to bandage them. Then he would return and take the scalp of Jamie MacCallister. He made the river only to pass out again. He lay with his legs in the cold water and his upper torso on the bank.

  Jamie opened his eyes to a world of pain. It was full daylight and the sun was bright. About eight o’clock, he guessed. He did not try to pry the dead fingers of Tall Bull from the hilt of the knife. He doubted he had the strength left in him to do that and then pull the blade from his side. He gritted his teeth, summoned all his strength and willpower, put one hand around Tall Bull’s wrist and the other around the dead Indian’s closed hand, and jerked.

  He screamed and passed out from the pain.

  By the river, Little Wolf stirred at the sound, but could not drag himself to consciousness.

  Jamie pulled himself back to white-hot awareness and pushed Tall Bull from him. He did not yet have the strength to stand, so after gathering his pistols and rifle, he began the painful crawl back to his camp. Twice he had to stop and rest. At his camp, he built up the fire and dressed his wounds as best he could with what he had and could find, the latter provided by nature.

  He forced himself to eat and drink some coffee and then, working in stages, for he was very weak, he packed up and saddled up. His horse did not like the smell of blood, but Jamie quieted the animal and got the saddle on him. Next came the task of getting himself into the saddle. After three tries, all of them hideously painful, he made it.

  He pointed the nose of the horse north, toward the road. He was very tired, and wanted very much to just lie down and rest. But he knew if he allowed that, he would not get up. He would just die.

  How he stayed in the saddle for as long as he did was something short of a miracle. He was only half conscious much of the time. When he reached the road, he turned east and ran right into a Mexican patrol. Through the painful haze behind his eyes, he saw them and lifted his rifle. It seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. The Mexican patrol literally blew him
out of the saddle. Jamie was unconscious before he hit the ground. He was not aware of the gentle rain that started falling from the clouds. It was a warm rain, and it signaled the beginning of spring.

  Jamie lay sprawled on his face and belly in a ditch by the side of the road. His horse had raced off as soon as Jamie was shot out of the saddle. Two of the Mexican cavalrymen tried to catch the animal, but the horse was too fast for them and they gave up.

  Jamie was covered with blood from his newly received head wound to his knees, and the officer took one careless glance at him and said, “Dead.”

  Jamie had been carrying the pouch on the outside of his coat to prevent any blood from leaking through and the Mexican officer ripped it from him and pawed through the letters. He could read and speak English and he saw quickly that there were no military dispatches among the bits of torn paper. He shook his head and cursed and threw the papers on the dampening ground and swung back into the saddle.

  He looked over at Jamie’s horse, about a half mile away, grazing. “Too bad,” he said. “That was a fine animal. I would have liked to have caught him.”

  The patrol galloped off, toward San Antonio, as the rain began turning the ink on the papers once more into liquid.

  * * *

  Kate straightened up from her work and looked westward. An almost physical stab of fear had suddenly filled her. She clutched at her breast and gasped. What was wrong with her? She’d never before experienced anything like this.

  Jamie Ian and Ellen Kathleen, now in their ninth year, and both very bright and quick, looked at their mother and then at each other. Ellen shook her head at her brother.

  Andy blurted, “Are you all right, Mommy?”

  Kate turned from the stove and forced a smile. “Yes. I’m fine. Get me some potatoes, will you, Andy?” She looked out the kitchen window. Sarah and Hannah were walking up the path, coming over for afternoon coffee and conversation. The men were in the fields.

  Kate took a deep breath and calmed herself. She just couldn’t understand that sudden moment of anxiety. It was gone now. She sighed and took the potatoes Andy handed her and thanked him. She had to smile as she looked at the children. Everyone of them blond and blue-eyed. The boys all looked like Jamie and the girls all looked like Kate.