Would have damaged him beyond repair, for sure, he thought with a grim chuckle.
Then he sobered. He’d caught only a glimpse of the mountain lion as it dived at him, but he had seen that it was a magnificent creature and a part of him regretted having to kill it. It never would have attacked a human being if it hadn’t been hungry from the hard winter not long past, the same sort of hunger that had led it to go after the herd of cattle Jamie had been building up for several years. He had himself a good ranch in what had come to be called MacCallister’s Valley, and he wasn’t going to let anybody—man or beast—take it away from him.
Jamie spotted his broad-brimmed, brown felt hat and was glad he hadn’t lost it, either. He gathered up the rifle and the hat and clambered the rest of the way to the ledge. As he stepped onto it, he looked up at the knob where the big cat had been lying in wait. He’d been tracking the mountain lion all day, and he knew the cat had been tracking him, too. But the deadly competition had come to its end.
Jamie slapped the hat against a buckskin-clad thigh and put it on. He reloaded the Sharps, sliding one of the long .52 caliber cartridges into the breech, then checked to make sure the Walker Colt was still in its holster on his right hip and hadn’t fallen out during his tumble. The revolver was there.
With the important things taken care of, he pulled his coat aside and lifted the buckskin shirt to take a look at the wounds on his chest. There were four scratches, each a few inches long. They were still bleeding, but not much. Jamie made a face, but the grimace was inspired more by the damage done to a perfectly good shirt than by the wounds themselves. Scars were scattered all over his tall, muscular body. A few more added to their number didn’t matter.
He took a bandanna from his pocket, pressed it over the claw marks, and held it in place with his right arm as he turned and started making his way back down the mountainside. To his left, MacCallister’s Valley opened in a broad, impressive sweep. The slopes of the surrounding snowcapped mountains were dark with evergreens. Down in the valley, the snow was gone and lush grass was starting to rise. Wildflowers dotted the meadows. It was the sort of view to take a man’s breath away, and it still affected Jamie that way, although he and Kate had been settled on their ranch for a good number of years.
Raised a good number of kids, too. All were grown and out on their own except for the youngest, Falcon, and despite barely being a teenager, he already had the wanderlust in his eyes. Jamie knew that because he had seen it in all the others as they started to come of age. If anything, it was even stronger in Falcon, and he was such a strapping youth that Jamie knew he and Kate wouldn’t be able to hold on to the boy for much longer.
Jamie had set out from the ranch this morning on horseback and picked up the cat’s trail at the last place it had attacked the herd. Not surprisingly, that trail led to the high country, and eventually Jamie had left the horse behind and continued his tracking on foot.
It took him the better part of an hour to reach the spot where he had left his mount. The horse was still there and bobbed his head up and down as he let out a whicker of greeting when Jamie stepped close. Then it shied away as it caught the scent of the big cat or the blood from Jamie’s wounds, or both.
“Take it easy there, old hoss,” Jamie said. “Nothing to worry about. That critter’s dead, I’m all right, and we’re going home.”
He slid the Sharps back into its saddle scabbard, untied the reins from the sapling he’d knotted them around, and swung up into leather. He wanted to be home by dark. At this time of year, it could still get mighty cold at night.
By late afternoon, he came in sight of the sprawling log and stone ranch house and the several outbuildings and corrals around it. He also saw something that made his eyes narrow under the bushy, graying brows. Four horses he didn’t recognize were tied up at the hitch rail in front of the house.
The presence of strangers didn’t necessarily mean trouble, of course, but even so, Jamie reached down and slid the Walker Colt up and down slightly in its holster, just to make sure it moved freely.
Everything looked peaceful. He drew up alongside the horses and saw the US brand on their left shoulders. Those were army mounts, he realized, increasing his puzzlement. He didn’t know of any reason why the army would be paying him a visit.
The front door opened and Falcon came out while Jamie was dismounting. Despite his young age, Falcon was almost as tall as his father, and the width of his shoulders indicated that they might well be as wide as Jamie’s someday. He had an unruly thatch of blond hair.
A grin spread across his face. “Soldiers inside lookin’ for you, Pa.”
“I can see that,” Jamie responded as he leaned his head toward the horses. “What do they want?”
“They ain’t sayin’.”
“Your ma would correct you if she was out here. They aren’t saying.”
“That’s what I just told you,” Falcon said. “Anyway, Ma’s set ’em down in the parlor and given ’em coffee and insisted that they stay for supper. They want to talk to you, so I reckon you’ll soon find out what they’re after.”
Jamie handed the reins to his son. “Here. Put this horse up for me.”
“Aw, I want to go in with you and find out what this is all about.”
“You’ll find out soon enough, if it’s any of your business. Now take the horse on to the barn, rub him down, and give him some grain.”
“All right.” Falcon started to turn away but paused to look over his shoulder and ask, “What about that mountain lion? I almost plumb forgot to ask about that.”
“He won’t bother our herd anymore.”
Falcon grinned, clearly proud of his father. “I knew you’d get him.”
Jamie didn’t mention how close the big cat had come to getting him.
“One more thing, Pa,” Falcon called as Jamie started into the house. “One of those fellas isn’t a soldier. At least, he ain’t dressed like one.”
Jamie didn’t bother correcting his son’s language this time. He was too interested in satisfying his own curiosity about the visitors.
After all the years of being married to him, Kate knew his step, of course. When he went into the house, she called from the parlor, “In here, Jamie.”
Jamie took off his hat and coat and hung them on a hook. As he moved into the parlor doorway, his keen-eyed gaze quickly took in the four visitors. Two of them, both in uniform, sat on a divan. A colonel and a major, he noted, so whatever this was, the army was taking it seriously.
Another soldier, a lieutenant who was probably an aide to the other officers, was in a straight-backed chair to the side, while a gray-haired, middle-aged man in a brown tweed suit occupied an armchair near the fireplace. His face was instantly familiar to Jamie, although the name didn’t want to come right away.
Kate was in a rocking chair she favored, but she stood up quickly with a look of concern on her beautiful face when she laid eyes on Jamie. He knew she had spotted the rips in his shirt and the bloodstains around them.
“Jamie,” she said as she took a step toward him. As always, she nearly took his breath away with her beauty, even with that worried expression on her face. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I just tangled a little with that big cat I went looking for. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing to . . . Let me see.” Without waiting for his permission, she lifted his shirt, which he found rather uncomfortable with strangers in the room. “Why, that bandanna is so bloody it’s stuck to the wounds! You come into the kitchen. That needs tending to, right now.”
“But Kate,” he said with a vague wave toward the four men, “we’ve got company.”
“Their business can wait,” she said crisply. “Can’t it, gentlemen?”
The familiar-looking civilian smiled and said, “Certainly it can, Mrs. MacCallister.” To Jamie, he went on. “Now that I’ve met your wife, Jamie, after hearing so much about her, I’d advise you not to argue with her.”
>
The man’s voice prodded Jamie’s memory, and a name popped into his head. “Owen! Owen Charlton.”
“That’s right. I didn’t know if you’d remember me or not. But you go on with Mrs. MacCallister. It’s not as if the fate of the entire nation depends on the errand that brought us here, or anything like that.”
One of the soldiers said, “Actually, sir—”
Owen Charlton stopped him with a curt gesture, then smiled and nodded again at Jamie, who allowed Kate to lead him out of the parlor.
As they went out to the kitchen, he couldn’t help but think of Owen Charlton’s comment about the errand that had brought them here and the fate of the nation.
Jamie had an unsettling hunch that despite what Charlton said, maybe those two things were related.
CHAPTER 3
Kate sat him down at the big table in the kitchen, dipped a cloth in a basin of water, and got to work soaking the bandanna loose from the bloody wounds. “I thought you were going to find that mountain lion and shoot it. From a distance.”
“Well, that was the plan,” Jamie responded dryly, “but the cat had ideas of its own. We don’t have to worry about him going after our stock anymore. I came out on top in that fight.”
“From the looks of these claw marks, the mountain lion was on top, at least for a while.”
Jamie changed the subject by saying, “When did Owen Charlton and those officers show up?”
“About two hours ago. I’ve been keeping them entertained. The others seem rather stiff and worried about something, but Mr. Charlton is a charming man, or at least pretends to be. Where do you know him from, Jamie?”
“Last time I saw him, he was in uniform, too. A colonel. I did some scouting under his command seven or eight years ago, over in the Missouri Territory. Reckon he’s either retired since then, or else he’s on some sort of special assignment that’s got him in civilian clothes.”
Jamie winced as Kate peeled the bandanna away from the wounds. She had loosened it enough with the wet rag to make it let go.
“Somebody could be carving on you with a bowie knife and you’d never make a sound or show it,” she said with a smile. “But let your wife do something that stings a little and you make a face like that.”
“Well, it stung more ’n a little,” Jamie said defensively, then grinned at her.
“It’s going to sting even more. I need to clean those scratches with whiskey. None of them look deep enough to require any stitches. I’ll just put some dressings on them and bind them in place. Considering all the other scars you have, these won’t even be that impressive.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
As Kate continued working, she said, “I noticed something about this man Owen Charlton, Jamie. Like I told you, he’s very easygoing and charming, but I could see something in his eyes, some sort of pain that’s haunting him. Do you know anything about that?”
Jamie shook his head. “Not a blasted thing. You reckon he’s sick?”
“Not physically. This strikes me as something that hurts him differently. Something in . . . well, his soul.”
Jamie didn’t say anything to that, but he took Kate’s words seriously. She was as perceptive a person as he had ever met, and the best judge of character, to boot.
By the time he walked into the parlor again, with bandages tied around his chest and wearing a clean, homespun shirt over them, Falcon had come into the house and was straddling a chair he had turned around.
Owen Charlton smiled and said, “I’ve been telling your son about the advantages of a military career, Jamie. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Nope, but I’m afraid the boy may be too headstrong and fiddle-footed to suit the army.”
“But they get to wear uniforms and carry sabers,” Falcon protested. “That sounds mighty excitin’.”
Charlton said, “Unfortunately, if you’re an officer, you wind up sitting in a great many dull meetings, as well. Like the one I’m about to have with your father.”
Jamie took that as a hint and told Falcon, “I’ll bet you can find some more chores to do. Probably won’t even have to look very hard.”
“But, Pa—”
“Come along, Falcon,” Kate said briskly. “I need you to bring in some firewood.”
Falcon looked like he wanted to argue, but he knew better than to disobey his mother. He sighed and followed Kate out of the parlor.
“Now we can get down to business,” the colonel said.
Charlton said, “Jamie, this is Colonel Jedediah Hargrove and his aide, Major Aaron Bolton. And Major Bolton’s aide, Lieutenant Henry Parkhurst.”
Jamie nodded, said, “Gentlemen,” and shook hands with all three officers. “Welcome to MacCallister’s Valley.” He looked at Charlton. “You retired now, Owen?”
Charlton cleared his throat, looked a little uncomfortable, and said, “As it happens, I’m a general. But I’m in civilian garb because I’m here as a special representative of the White House.”
“President Fillmore sent you?” Jamie asked with a frown.
“That’s right.”
News from back east was sometimes slow in reaching MacCallister’s Valley, but Jamie knew Millard Fillmore occupied the White House at the moment, with an election coming up later in the year to see if he would continue to do so. He didn’t have any particular opinion about Fillmore, politics never having interested him that much, but he wasn’t aware of anything bad about the man. It was a complete mystery to him, though, why the President would send Owen Charlton to talk to him.
Jamie settled himself in his own rocking chair and said, “This sounds like sort of a deep tale. You’d best start from the beginning, Owen.”
Charlton sat down, leaned forward, and clasped his hands between his knees. “Are you familiar with the transcontinental railroad?”
“I know such a thing doesn’t exist.”
“Not yet, but there’s been a great deal of discussion in Washington about the building of such a road. As you can imagine, an undertaking like that would be very expensive, with a lot at stake.”
Jamie nodded. “Not just money. There’d be a lot of power and influence riding on it being a success, too.”
“Exactly!” Charlton said, ticking off the points on his fingers as he went on. “Money, power, and influence . . . You start talking about those three things, and people in Washington sit up and take notice. It doesn’t take them long to stake out their positions, either. The discussions about a transcontinental railroad have centered around two prospective routes.”
“Each one with its own supporters, I imagine.”
“That’s very true. Some believe that the country would be best served by the railroad taking a northern route across the plains and through the mountains. Others are firmly convinced that a southern route through Texas and then across the territory acquired from Mexico by the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo would be better. Not only that, but it’s also thought that Santa Anna would be willing to sell the United States even more land across the southern border. Mexico has been financially strapped ever since he became president again.”
Jamie scowled. “Santa Anna.” The name sounded like it tasted bad in his mouth. “That fella has more lives than a cat. How he keeps winding up back in power down there south of the border is more than I can figure out.”
“That’s right. You were at the Alamo, weren’t you?” Charlton said.
“For a while, before it fell. Good thing I got out when I did, or we wouldn’t be sitting here today. But a lot of good men didn’t get out, and as far as I’m concerned, their blood is on Santa Anna’s hands.”
The barrel-chested Colonel Hargrove spoke up. “You wouldn’t allow your justifiable resentment toward the Mexican president to affect your service to your country, would you, Mr. MacCallister?”
“So far, nobody’s said a blasted word about how you figure I can serve my country this time,” Jamie snapped. “No offense, Owen, but you’re just talking ar
ound it with all this palaver about railroads.”
“No, that’s really the main reason I’m here,” Charlton said. “At the moment, a southern route isn’t really feasible because the territory between Texas and California, even with that already officially under United States control, is mostly unexplored and . . . untamed.”
Jamie had been rocking slightly in his chair. He stopped, peered intently at Charlton, and said, “You’re talking about the Apaches.”
Grim-faced, Charlton nodded. And for a second, Jamie saw what Kate had mentioned earlier—pain flaring to life in the man’s eyes. Jamie’s mention of the Apaches seemed to be the spark that had set it off.
Charlton’s mouth was a thin line as he said, “That’s right. Other than the trail up to Santa Fe and the few settlements that have developed along it, Mexico never really brought the area under control. And traffic along that trail has been disrupted many times by raids carried out by the hostiles. There is no trail running from east to west. What it comes down to is that anyone venturing west of El Paso del Norte is risking his life . . . and in great danger of losing it.”
“What about the army?”
Major Bolton said, “We’ve tried to establish regular patrols—” He stopped short at the look Charlton gave him.
Deep trenches had appeared in the older man’s cheeks. His blithe, charming manner had disappeared completely.
“The Apaches must be pacified, at least to a certain extent, before an adequate investigation and survey of the area can be made,” Charlton said. “President Fillmore has placed me in charge of this effort and instructed me to see it through to a success, no matter what is required.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Jamie asked. His voice was as hard and grim as Charlton’s.
“There’s no better fighting man west of the Mississippi. . . or east of there, either, for that matter. Jamie Ian MacCallister is one of the best-known frontiersmen in the nation, spoken of in the same breath as Kit Carson and Jim Bridger.”
They Came to Kill Page 2