Eyes of Eagles

Twenty-two

While Jamie munched on a biscuit and fried salt pork from his rucksack, a few miles south, Hart Olmstead surveyed his situation. It was not good. He had about twenty men left able to ride and fight, and a half a dozen of those were hurt. LaBeau had repaired his cinch strap and ridden off without saying a word. A moment later, a half dozen others exchanged silent glances and followed him. Hart did not curse them or yell out commands for them to stop. If the men did not have the backbone for the fight, he did not want them along. Besides, they were riding off without their pay, which was to be paid at Jamie MacCallister’s death.

Hart walked over to Waymore Newby. “Are you with me, man?”

“I’m stayin,’ ”Waymore assured him. “I want MacCallister nearabouts as bad as you do.”

Hart nodded and walked to his sons. All of them were cut and bruised from their impacting with the ground at great speeds. Jubal had a wild and unstable look in his eyes. His hatred for Jamie, instead of diminishing over the years, had grown to a fever intensity. Jubal was a whore-master and slaver in New Orleans, making a great deal of money. But he would never be content until he stood over Jamie’s body and spat on the corpse.

“We’ll move west a few miles, away from that accursed swamp,” Hart said. “Allen says they’s another trail over yonder. Saddle up. We’re riding.”

Jamie waited in the deep timber. He had chosen well. His place was thick with underbrush, so thick and tangled if any tried to come in after him, they would have to do so on foot. And this tangle of trees and vines and thorny brush ran for several miles deep and a dozen miles north to south. Jamie’s horse was picketed far back in the timber, on graze and ample water. Jamie waited. And it was not a long wait. He smiled when he heard the riders coming. He had guessed correctly what Hart would do.

The column was, as before, formed to protect Hart Olmstead and his sons. The men were riding in sort of a loosely formed W, with the Olmstead family in the protected middle.

Jamie loosed an arrow and took a man down, the arrow driving in just above his belt, ripping through vital organs. The man screamed and toppled from the saddle.

Jamie instantly changed positions, notching another arrow as he moved. Guns crashed and sent balls into the brush he had just vacated. Jamie let fly another arrow and the arrow pinned a man’s arm to his side. He yelled in pain and fought his horse. Jamie moved swiftly, this time on his belly, working his way through the choking underbrush, moving like a huge deadly serpent.

“Get in there and kill the bastard!” he faintly heard the words from Hart.

Yes, Jamie thought. Do come in here after me.

A half dozen men charged their horses into the timber and were stopped cold by the impenetrable growth. Jamie put an arrow into one’s chest and the others, fear clouding their faces, raced back into the clearing. Hart and the others had disappeared behind a rise, for this country was gently rolling hills.

Again, Jamie changed position, on his way picking up the fallen man’s rifle and powder horn and ball and patch pouch. The rifle was a good one, nearly new, and a heavy caliber. Jamie recharged the musket and slipped to the edge of the timber. He did not have to worry about anyone coming up behind him, or really, anyone coming up on either side of his position. If Hart tried anything, it would have to be a frontal assault.

The crest of the ridge was about a hundred yards away, an easy shot for Jamie if ever a target presented itself. But Hart’s men were being very wary.

And Jamie saw the dark humor in that and allowed himself a cold, thin smile. He waited.

Behind the ridge, Hart was in a hard bind and knew it. That damn MacCallister had killed two more men and wounded another. He looked around at what was left of his men and grew discouraged. But the thought of calling a truce with Jamie never entered his mind. His hatred was that great.

“If we ride in any direction,” Waymore said, “MacCallister will just pick us off one at a time. If we stay here until dark...” His voice trailed off as he received a very dirty look from Olmstead.

“He can’t be alone,” Patrick Olmstead said. “One man just can’t do all that’s been done this day.”

“He’s alone,” one of the hired thugs from New Orleans said, as he wrapped a very dirty rag tightly around a sprained wrist. “My woman is French, deep into voodoo, and she says that Jamie MacCallister has spirits around him all the time. Good spirits and bad spirits. She warned me this mission would fail.”

Waymore, just about as ignorant as they come, was fascinated. “What else did she say about him?”

“That MacCallister is what the Indians call a shape-shifter.”

“What the hell is that?” Jubal asked.

“He can take the form of different animals,” the New Orleans man said. “Wolves, panthers, and the like.”

“Nonsense!” Hart scoffed.

Just about that time, Jamie started coughing like a panther, and then let loose with a blood-chilling panther scream from the timber.

Several of the men exchanged fearful glances. Most were ignorant to the soul, and it was a highly superstitious time. Four men made up their minds right there and then.

“We’re leavin’,” one said, after receiving nods from the others. “There ain’t no amount of money worth dyin’ for. And it wouldn’t be wise to try and stop us.” They walked to their horses and booted their rifles. Then they found sticks and tied rags to the ends of the sticks and mounted up.

“MacCallister!” one shouted. “They’s four of us a-leavin’. We ain’t joshin’ none. We’re a-pullin’ out and you ain’t never gonna see us agin. These here is sticks in our hands with rags a-tied to the end. Our rifles is booted. We’re headin’ south. Please let us go.”

“Go and be damned!” Hart said. “I hope he shoots you all.”

“He won’t,” the New Orleans man said. “ ’Cause he’s got something that don’t none of us have.”

“And what might that be?” Ernest Olmstead asked.

“Honor.”

The four men rode out slowly and headed south, each of them expecting a bullet in the back. Jamie let them go.

“Honor!” Jubal yelled at the New Orleans man. “Jamie MacCallister ain’t got no honor. He’s a goddamned killer is all he is.”

The New Orleans man turned his back to the angry young man without replying. MacCallister is damn sure killin’ the hell out of us, he thought.

Jamie watched the four men ride out, then did some arithmetic. From the moment he rode away from his cabin, he knew he would be able to cut down the odds some; but he never dreamt he could accomplish what he had done these past twenty-four hours. Olmstead had started out with a fresh and well-equipped army. Now, if Jamie figured correctly, he was down to sixteen men, including Hart. Jamie didn’t know it, but Olmstead had less than that.

Hart looked around him. He could not spot Titus or Robert. “Where the hell did those damn niggers go?” he threw out the question.

“Slipped off into the timber, I reckon,” a man with a bloody bandage around his head said. “It’s not likely we’ll ever see them again.”

Titus and Robert had stolen some supplies and during the confusion had slipped away. They headed northwest. They wanted no more of Jamie MacCallister or of Hart Olmstead. Mountain men visiting New Orleans had told them of the towering mountains, where a man could live free — if he didn’t get killed by Injuns. Titus and Robert had good mounts, weapons, and food. They would ride until their pasts were far behind them, and then try to start anew. Both of them knew one thing for certain: they would never return to the Big Thicket country.

Jamie had taken a packet of food and a canteen of water from the dead man’s horse. He ate the food and quenched his thirst and waited in the timber. The next move was up to Hart Olmstead.

Silently, in his mind, Hart Olmstead cursed Jamie MacCallister until he could think of nothing else to call him. He watched as his boy, Ernest, slipped to his side, being careful to stay well behind the ridge.

“Pa, it’s over. We got to stay alive for the sake of our wounded kin west of here. MacCallister’s done cut our force down to nothin’. Half of them that stayed is hurt. MacCallister’s got us. It’s his deck, his table, and his game.”

Hart gave his son a cold look. “Boy, are you suggestin’ that we... ?”

Ernest cut him off. “I’m suggestin’ that we live, Pa. I’m sayin’ that we call a truce with MacCallister and ride on out of here, over to Nacogdoches. When Carl and the others is able to ride, we head back to New Orleans and get on with livin.’ Look, Pa, I hate Jamie MacCallister, but I love life more. We got a good thing goin’ in New Orleans. Are we goin’ to throw all that away for one man?”

Patrick had slipped up and was listening. He nodded his head in agreement. “Ernest is right, Pa,” he said. “More’un half of the men we got left is talkin’ ’bout pullin’ out. If it was put to a vote, this fight would end right here and now.”

Olmstead’s shoulders suddenly sagged and he looked and felt his middle age. Hell, he thought, I’m past middle age. He looked down at his hands. They were filthy. He stank of sweat. His clothing was permeated with the stale smell. Slowly, he nodded his head. “Fix a stick with a white rag. Tell MacCallister it’s over as far as I’m concerned.”

“You ain’t talkin’ for me, Pa!” Jubal said. “Not now, not never. Not for me, and not for Abel Jackson. Me and him swore a blood oath a long time ago.” Jubal paled at the sounds of a dozen hammers being cocked. Slowly he turned. Rifles and pistols were pointed at him.

Ernest took Jubal’s pistols and rifle. “Just stand easy, brother. This here is done.”

Hart took the stick with the torn shirt on it and waved it above the ridgeline. “MacCallister!” he shouted. “Listen to me. I know you ain’t goin’to answer me, so just listen. This is Hart Olmstead talkin’. It’s over, boy. You hear me? It’s over. But I can’t talk for my youngest, Jubal. Nor for Abel Jackson. But for me and the rest of mine, you and Kate live your lives. You’ll not see me again. Ernest has got Jubal at gunpoint. And he’ll be thataway ’til we’re long gone. The men is headin’ south, and me and mine is headin’ over to the settlement to fetch the wounded back. You’ll not see me again, MacCallister. Not never.”

Something in his voice caused Jamie to believe the man. “All right,” he called. “Ride on.”

Jubal tried to wrest a rifle from Ernest and his brother gave him a good pop on the side of the head with the butt of the rifle. Jubal went down, addled.

“Jamie? This here’s Waymore Newby. I’ll be ridin’ with Olmstead. You’ve seen the last of me, MacCallister.”

Jamie most definitely did not believe that. But he called, “Ride on, Newby.”

Jamie watched the men leave. Hart and his sons, with Waymore tagging along, rode toward Nacogdoches, the rest of the men headed south. He waited until they were out of sight, and then fetched his horse. He buried the dead man with the arrow in his chest, although he wondered why he was taking the time.

Jamie was tired. Wearily, he climbed into the saddle and rode east. At the edge of the thicket, he turned his horse’s head to the north. He had not gone a mile when he heard the sounds of hooves drumming the ground. He slipped into the thicket and waited. It was Bonham and fifteen men from in and around San Augustine. They were all heavily armed and riding with set jaws and fire in their eyes.

Jamie slowly walked his horse out of the thicket and the men reined up. They stared at the fresh scalps tied to the horse’s mane and at Jamie’s bloody buckskins. They looked at the camouflage on his face and hands.

Bonham was the first to speak. “I gathered up some men and we rode down to help. Looks like you didn’t need any help.”

Jamie nodded his head.

“How many were there, lad?” a settler asked.

“Fifty-two,” Jamie replied.

“Fifty-two!” another man blurted. “Where are they, lad? Let’s go finish this.”

“If they’s enough of us,” another man added.

“It’s already finished,” Jamie told him. “I let the last sixteen or so ride on.”

The mounted men sat their saddles and stared at him. A farmer that Jamie knew slightly — he thought his name was Stoddlemire — said, “You killed the rest?”

“Most of them. Although some chose to quit the fight and ride out on their own. I let them go. The wounded was taken over to Nacogdoches. Hart Olmstead and his sons have ridden over there to see about them. They called off the fight now and forever, and I agreed to that.”

“You believe that, lad?” Bonham asked.

“For the most part. I think that one day Jubal Olmstead and Abel Jackson will return to pick up the feud. As will the Newby Brothers and the Saxon boys. But John Jackson is dead, and Hart Olmstead has had enough. And so have I.”

“You look beat,” another citizen from San Augustine remarked.

“I am,” Jamie admitted. He’d been pumped up with adrenaline for hours, and now the letdown was visible. “But I have to get back to Kate and the others.”

“Do you relax, lad,” Bonham said. “They’re just fine. Some of your Indian friends showed up and would’ve like to have scared me slap out of my boots. One second I was enjoyin’ a cup of coffee, all alone by your cabin, the next second I was surrounded by Redskins. An army couldn’t get to Kate and the others, even if they was to home.”

“You and your family have got to start socializing, Jamie,” another man said. “After all, we’re all well within riding distance of your cabins.”

“Yes,” said a man Jamie knew only as Howard. “It’s time we had a long talk with you. We’ve grand plans for Texas.”

“I know,” Jamie said. “Egg told me.”

“He told you?” another blurted.

“What did he say?” yet another man asked.

“Later, Ralph,” Stoddlemire said, dismounting. “Come on, Jamie. Let’s get some hot food in you and some coffee. Then we’ll ride back with you.” He looked over at Jamie, a twinkle in his eyes. “I was going to say that the next time you’re in trouble, all you have to do is holler, and we’ll come runnin’. But you’re a regular one-man army.”

“Yes,” Bonham said. “You can bet that the story of this fight will spread all over the land.”

He was right. When Jim Bowie heard the story of how one man, Jamie Ian MacCallister, successfully fought more than fifty men, and killed more than half of them, he startled the diners in the elegant restaurant by shouting, “By God, boys. That’s a man. I want to meet this young fellow.”

When the news reached Davy Crockett, way up in Tennessee, he whooped, “Thar’s a man’s man, boys. I hope I get to meet this grizzly bar someday.”

Bowie and Crockett would get their wish, in just about four years. During a cold winter in early 1836 at a crumbling old church built by Franciscan friars and named the Mission of San Antonio de Valero, where some one hundred and eighty-two men would withstand nearly two weeks of siege and ninety blood-drenched minutes on the final day... at The Alamo.