Scream of Eagles (4 page)

Jamie turned around slowly, the glass of 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.

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.

 

 

 

“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 about 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.

Law enforcement officers were much more practical back in those days when it came to dealing with trash and thugs and ne 'er-do-wells. Standing outside the telegraph office, the marshal and sheriff talked it over.

“Hell,” the town marshal said to the sheriff, after a brief discussion about the situation. “Maybe MacCallister will take care of the problem for us.”

“That is a thought,” the sheriff replied. “Tell you what, it's an unusually warm day for this time of year. Why don't we take off and go fishing?”

“Damn good idea,” the marshal replied. “I'll get my pole and meet you down on the Humbold, right there where the river bends and it's quiet and shady.”

“I know the spot. 'Bout three miles west of town?”

“That's the place.”

“See you there.”

The sheriff told his wife, “Stay in the house and off the streets.”

The marshal told his wife, “Stay in the house and off the streets.”

After registering at the hotel, and having the desk clerk's eyes bug out at the name on the registry book, and after a bath and shave and change of clothes, Jamie asked directions to the toughest and seediest saloon in town, and it was pointed out to him.

Jamie checked his guns, worked them in and out of the holsters a couple of times, and headed for the saloon.

Before taking off to go fishing, the marshal had told a couple of notorious gossips about Jamie being in town and what he and the sheriff were going to do, and the word had quickly spread. The stores on either side of the saloon were closed and so were the stores across the street. The wide street in front of the saloon was deserted when Jamie reached the batwings and shoved them open, stepping inside. He walked up to the bar and ordered a whiskey. Outside, the wind picked up as storm clouds began gathering. A dust devil spun crazily up the street. A few drops of rain suddenly splattered against the ground, sending up quick puffs of dust and pocking the dry earth. Lightning licked across the sky.

Jamie took his drink and moved to a rear table, sitting down with his back against the wall. He picked up a worn deck of cards and began a game of solitaire. He had just laid out the cards when the batwings flew open and a man stood there, his eyes wild and his hands over his guns.

Jamie drew his right-hand Colt and kept it out of sight, by one leg of the chair.

“Damn your eyes, Jamie MacCallister!” Red Johnson shouted. “I ain't runnin' from you no more.” His hands closed around the butts of his guns, and he started his pull.

Jamie's pistol roared, and Red went stumbling outside, the front of his shirt blossoming crimson. He fell off the boardwalk and died in the dust. A few raindrops glistened on his face.

Jamie laid his pistol on the table, took a sip of whiskey, and resumed his card game.

Moments later, the sounds of galloping horses reached those in the saloon. All eyes turned to Jamie. Jamie smiled and said, “That would probably be Waddy Keeton and Bob Perlich. I guess those boys just don't have the stomach to face me. Another time, I reckon.” He looked over at the barkeep. “You got anything to eat in this place?”

“Y... Y... yes, sir,” the man stammered. “Got a stew my old woman just fixed. And some hot bread.”

“Bring it. And a big glass of water.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

Jamie took his pocket watch out of his vest and snapped it open. But he was not checking the time. Inside the cover, there was a picture of Kate, frozen in time, smiling at him, her golden hair shining and her blue eyes sparkling.

Jamie smiled at the picture and closed the watch, returning it to his pocket.

“You kilt a mighty fine man just then, MacCallister,” a man said in a rough voice.

“I killed a piece of scum and totally worthless trash,” Jamie corrected the man just as his food was placed in front of him. “Now shut up and leave me alone.” Jamie started eating with his left hand, his right hand close to the pistol on the table.

The local wanted to say more, but friends of his hushed him up and started to lead him outside.

“Leave the body alone,” Jamie called. “He's probably wearing a money belt filled with stolen money. The money belongs to the bank in Valley, Colorado, and to Wells Fargo.”

“What are you going to do with it?” the big-mouthed friend of Red Johnson questioned, turning to face Jamie. “Take it for your own self?”

Jamie smiled at that. If the truth be told, Jamie was probably one of the richest men west of the Mississippi. He was worth millions of dollars. Ever since first settling in the valley, Jamie had been working gold mines, many of them lodes his grandfather had discovered in the latter part of the last century—when he first came out with the mountain men—and all during the eighteenth century, until his death in 1844. He was buried along the same ledge as Kate, high up, overlooking the long valley.
⁵

The local just wouldn't turn it loose. “You find something funny about that, MacCallister?”

“Let it alone,” Jamie warned him. “Just let it alone.”