Eyes of Eagles

Twenty-four

“When will it end, Jamie?” Kate asked, as she watched him carefully clean his guns and stroke the blade of his big knife over the sharpening stone.

“When they’re all dead, I reckon, Kate.” He smiled at her. “Texas is on the move and I need to be in the fields.”

“The Nunez boys can plow and plant, Jamie. You know they idolize you.”

The Juan Nunez family lived right on the edge of the thicket and Jamie and Kate had become friends with them. During the winter, Juan and his wife, Maria, became seriously ill and Jamie and Kate nursed them back to health and saw to the needs of their children during their illness. Jamie and Kate had made friends for life.

“I thought those horrible Saxon brothers and their kin were working for my father.” Kate said.

“I guess they branched out on their own.” He stood up, treetop tall and with shoulders so broad he had to turn sideways to go through many doorways, and leaned down and kissed his wife. “I’ve already arranged for the Nunez boys to get the land ready and to plant if I’m not back.”

She handed him a packet of food and waited until he had looked in on all the children, standing for a time looking down at the sleeping Joleen, and then walked with him outside, where young Jamie, now eight years old, stood holding the reins to Jamie’s horse.

“Boy,” Jamie told his son, whose head was so far back looking up at his father he was in danger of falling over, “you take care of your ma, now, you hear?”

“Yes, Pa. I will.”

“And you mind her, too, you hear?”

“Yes, Pa.” Then he quite unintentionally toppled over backward, landing on his butt. He grinned up at his parents, and made a face at his twin sister, who was by the corner of the house, sticking her tongue out at him.

Laughing at young Jamie’s antics, Jamie and Kate walked out to where Sam and Sarah, Swede and Hannah, Moses and Liza, and Wells and Sally had gathered. All the men were a little miffed at Jamie’s refusal to let them accompany him.

“I’ll be back,” Jamie told them. “Two weeks, a month, two months. I don’t know. But I am going to resolve this matter. One way or the other.”

Sam looked at the horse’s mane, now holding more than two dozen dried scalps. He just never would understand the lad, he thought. And Lord knows he had tried.

Swede tried not to look at the scalps. One side of him thought they were disgusting and certainly not something any civilized man would so proudly place on exhibit. However, the other side of him was proud of Jamie for doing what most people did not have the courage to do: defending his family and himself and openly defying tradition by silently telling others: this is what happens when you commit lawless acts against me or mine. So beware. Same principle as a Keep Off sign, albeit just a tad more graphic. Hannah had quietly changed Swede since their marriage. And Swede was not nearly as reluctant to fight as Jamie thought he was.

At the same moment Jamie was speaking to his friends, Jim Bowie was leaving San Felipe for a visit with a friend, Fontaine, who would meet with him and a few others caught up in the Texas independence movement, in the back of Smith’s store.

Bowie rode with only a few friends accompanying him, not at all concerned about Indian attack... he rather looked forward to any fracas that might occur. Bowie had since stopped his wild drinking as the grief over the death of his wife and children abated. But he was still a good hand with the jug from time to time.

* * *

During one of their meetings, Louis Fontaine had admitted to Jamie that he was a government agent, acting on orders from President Jackson. Only Smith, Austin, and Adolphus Sterne knew that, and now Jamie knew it.

On his ride south, Jamie was amazed at the number of new cabins up and going up. Americans were ignoring Mexico’s ban on immigration and coming across the borders and settling. Jamie reckoned there must now be hundreds of American families living in Texas. He was right. By 1837, there would be fourteen thousand American families living in Texas.

Jamie encountered no trouble on his ride south. He did receive some rather curious looks from the new people settling in; and the scalps tied to his horse’s mane did, too. But nobody had any comments to make about them. When the man sitting the saddle looked as though he had been hewn out of oak, only the most unwise or foolhardy would be prompted to have anything derogatory to say.

Jamie took his time getting to his destination, stopping often to talk with people, so Bowie and friends were there before he arrived. Jim Bowie, a big strapping man of over six feet and weighing nearly a hundred and ninety pounds, was standing on the porch of Smith’s General Store when Jamie rode in. Bowie took one look and made up his mind. Jamie Ian MacCallister was a man to ride the river with. That they were opposites held no doubt in Jim’s mind, for Jamie’s manner suggested that he was a quiet man, while Jim could be and usually was, loud and boisterous. Bowie was also a drinking and hard partying man. Looking at Jamie, Bowie had the thought that the young mountain of a man had never been drunk in his life and probably never would be. He was correct. Bowie had been told by Fontaine that Jamie was antislavery. Bowie smiled at that. In one year’s time, the Kentucky born Jim and his brothers, John and Rezin, had made thousands of dollars working with the pirate, Jean Lafitte, smuggling slaves. Jim had done it all and was ashamed of none of it. But he also held that each man had the right to his personal opinion on issues and was not to be faulted if that opinion ran across the grain of his own.

And Bowie was amused when he saw the scalps tied to the mane of Jamie’s horse. Here, he thought, was a man clearly warning all he met that he would tolerate no excess liberties to be taken upon him. Bowie had heard of the men camped outside of the town, and Fontaine and Smith had brought him up to date on the bounty hunters and their relentless pursuit of Jamie MacCallister. This was shaping up to be a very interesting day, Jim thought, for two of the men who were hunting Jamie were in the grog shop just across the rutted street. Yes, Jim thought, lighting a cheroot, it was shaping up to be a very interesting day.

Jim watched as Fontaine’s scout, Bonham, a good, steady men, Jim thought, hailed Jamie and then walked into the street to speak with him.

“They’s a passel of them in town, Jamie,” the scout told him. “And they’re spread all over, but most of them is down to that Mex joint. They’s two of them over yonder acrost the street. One says his name is Andy Saxon. Come on,” Bonham said. “There is someone I want you to meet.”

Jim Bowie was not a man easily impressed. But Jamie Ian MacCallister impressed the hell out of him. The young man — Jim guessed him to be in his early twenties — was huge, with wrists that Bowie guessed would be an easy ten or twelve inches around. The lad does not know his own strength, Bowie guessed again, and knew he was right.

Bowie smiled at Jamie’s easy handshake. A lot of men liked to show off their strength by grinding the other fellow’s knuckles together. That was done to Bowie once. Jim told the oaf that if he ever did it again, he’d spread him wide open and let him look at his own guts.

But not Jamie. Jamie was no show-off. He was a man who knew his own capabilities and limits and that was something that most men never realized. Jim Bowie liked the tall, long-haired young man immediately. Jim started to offer his help in dealing with the Saxon gang, then decided against it. He wanted to see Jamie in action.

Smith and Fontaine were indisposed for a time, Jim told Jamie.

“Well, how about a drink then?” Jamie said. Then he smiled and added, “Across the street.”

Bowie returned the smile. “I have been known to tipple from time to time.”

“Well, let’s go tipple then,” Jamie said, handing the reins to one of Smith’s manservants. The Indian smiled secretly at Jamie.

Bonhan chuckled as the three of them walked across the road. This was going to be fun!

Bowie had noticed — not much escaped the adventurer’s eyes — that Jamie had booted his rifle and carried only his two pistols behind his sash. But the knife Jamie carried in a beaded sheath looked familiar and he asked him about it.

“Made by Noah Smithwick,” Jamie said. “I believe you have made his acquaintance.”

Bowie smiled and then laughed. For it was Noah who had made the knife he now carried in a sheath at his side. “I’ve met the gentleman a time or two,” Bowie responded, as the men stepped to the door of the shady saloon.

The saloon stank of stale sweat, unwashed bodies, and clothing worn too long. The noses of Jamie, Bonham, and Bowie wrinkled against the unnecessary foulness as they stepped into the semigloom of the grog shop and walked to the plank bar.

The saloon was full for this time of day, and as Bonham had whispered to Jamie upon his arrival, he knew none of the men.

“What a foul lot,” Bowie said, in a voice that was deliberately loud and intended to reach the ears of everyone present. It did.

Some of the men stirred in anger, but none among them had any desire whatsoever to match blades with Jim Bowie. For if they challenged him, it would be Bowie’s choice of weapons, and they all knew what that would be.

“Whiskey,” Jamie said. “And wash out the cups,” he added. “Carefully.”

Bowie and Bonham laughed at that.

The barkeep gave Jamie a hot look, but was wise enough to add nothing vocally. He dunked three cups in a bucket of water and set them and a jug on the planks. Then the man behind the bar moved to the far end, just as far as he could go, putting himself well out of the line of fire he felt was inevitable.

Bowie splashed whiskey in his cup and downed it. “Awful stuff,” he said, then smiled. “Don’t know why anyone would want to drink it.” Then he picked up the jug and refilled his cup.

Why anyone would want to tangle with a person of Jamie’s size and near legend reputation was a mystery to both Bonham and Bowie. Even quietly standing at the rough bar, slowly sipping his cup of whiskey, even a fool could see that MacCallister had the power in those massive arms to snap a grown man’s back like a twig. But the Good Lord, in all His wisdom, for whatever reason, placed a large number of fools on this earth. And on this day, in the spring of 1834, the dark, smelly saloon held no small number of them.

One of them stood up and walked to the bar, stopping directly behind Jamie. “MacCallister! You’re wanted back in the States on a number of charges.”

“All those warrants have long been dismissed,” Jamie said, without turning around. “Do you be a wise man, now, and return to your seat. I wish no trouble.”

“Jamie Ian MacCallister,” the man persisted in a loud voice. “Surrender or die, you back-shootin’, murderin’ son of a bitch!”

Jamie turned around and hit the man. His big fist struck the man just above the left ear and it sounded like a melon hit with the flat side of a shovel. The man’s boots flew out from under him and he was sent crashing to the floor, about ten feet from where he had stood. He did not move.

Jamie’s swing had not seemed rushed, but Bowie knew he had just witnessed one of the most powerful blows he had ever seen. Blood was leaking from the prostrate man’s nose and mouth and left ear. Bowie had seen many a dead man in his wild and oftentimes violent life, and he knew he was looking at another.

An unshaven and loutish-looking man knelt down beside the man on the dirty floor. “You’ve killed him!” he said.

Jamie shrugged his heavy shoulders in complete indifference. “He threatened me,” was all he had to say.

“Do you know who this is?” the kneeling man asked.

“No, and I don’t care,” Jamie replied, taking another small sip of whiskey.

“This here’s Andy Saxon.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

The man rose to his boots and slowly made his way to the door. “You’re a dead man, Jamie MacCallister,” he said. “Andy’s kin will track you to hell for this.”

Jamie turned to face the man. “That’s been tried by better men than that scum on the floor. They’re dead and I’m still here.”

The man turned and ran from the saloon. He jumped into the saddle of a horse tied at the hitchrail and galloped off.

Bowie tossed some coins on the planks. “The service was lousy, the whiskey raw, and the clientele surly. But the show was excellent. Let’s go, boys. We have a meeting to attend.”

“What about that there feller on the floor?” the counterman cried.

“The way I see it,” Bowie said, “you have two options. You can leave him there until he petrifies, and then prop him in a corner as a conversation piece. Or you can bury him. My suggestion is the latter. In this climate he’s going to get very rank, very quickly.”

Bowie, Bonham, and Jamie walked out.