Scream of Eagles (2 page)

Army troops were hard at work building the new fort when Jamie rode past. The post would be located a few miles outside the town, just north and slightly east of Rock Creek.

In the spring of 1870, Atlantic City had a population of over two thousand, mostly miners, gamblers, thieves, con men, and whores. Like most boom towns, it was a wild and woolly place, and you took your life in your own hands venturing out after dark.

Jamie stabled his horses, worked out an arrangement with the livery owner to sleep in the loft (the hotels and boardinghouses were all packed full with varying degrees of humanity), and went to see the town marshal.

The marshal knew who he was the instant Jamie stepped into his office. Jamie Ian MacCallister was a true living legend. Books had been written about him, songs had been sung, and several plays on the life and times of Jamie Ian MacCallister had been produced.

“My name is MacCallister,” he informed the marshal and his two deputies, closing the door behind him. The bulk of him was huge in the room. “I'll be in your town for no more than a couple of days. I'm here looking for two men. When I've found them, I'll move on. I think you know why I'm here, so there is no need for me to repeat the story. I respect the law; one of my sons is a sheriff down in Colorado. But sometimes the law just doesn't work. I'm here to see that it does. That's all I have to say. Good day, gentlemen.”

Jamie stepped out onto the warped boardwalk and closed the door behind him.

The marshal looked at his two officers. “Stay out of MacCallister's way. One of you go tell the undertaker he's about to have some business.”

Jamie found the men in the first saloon he entered. They were sitting in the rear, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses on the table between them.

“Hubbie Joiner and Jesse Maxwell,” Jamie called. “Stand up and face me, you murdering bastards!”

The distance between the batwings and the rear table cleared in two heartbeats. No one wanted to get caught in the cross fire.

The two outlaws stood up, hands hovering over the butts of their guns. They both had known that Jamie was after them; that news had spread all up and down the hoot-owl trail. But neither one of them had worried much about it. They were in their early thirties; MacCallister's hair was gray, and he had to be knocking on an old man's door. No way he was going to take two men half his age.

Hubbie grinned, exposing tobacco-stained and rotten teeth. “You bes' go on back home, now, old man. Get in your rockin' chair and pull a shawl over your knees.”

“Yeah,” Jesse said. “Where'd you leave your cane, old man. You bes' find it 'fore you fall over.”

Jamie's smile was hard. “You men were part of the gang that raided MacCallister's Valley last year. You killed a number of people, including my wife, Kate. Now hook and draw, you sorry sons of bitches.”

The two outlaws would never know that Jamie Ian MacCallister was probably the West's first fast draw; had no way of knowing they were facing the man who mastered the technique. Their hands had just closed around the butts of their guns when Jamie's Colts spat fire and smoke and lead.

Hubbie Joiner sat down in the chair he'd just risen out of and died, a very odd expression on his face as he looked down at the hole in his chest. Jesse Maxwell stumbled backward against the wall and dropped his Remingtons to the floor. He slid down until his butt touched the floor. There he died.

Every eyeball in the saloon clicked toward Jamie. The big man holstered his guns and said, “There'll be money in their pockets. It belongs to Wells Fargo and to the bank in Valley, Colorado. Turn the money over to your marshal.”

Jamie walked outside to stand for a moment on the boardwalk. Across the street, the marshal and his officers had stepped out of the office at the sounds of the gunfire. They watched as Jamie unfolded a sheet of paper and took a pencil from his vest pocket. He drew a line on the paper, then carefully folded it and returned it to his inside pocket. Then he walked across the street to a cafe and ordered a cup of coffee and a slice of cake.

A miner ran across the street, peeked into the cafe, then trotted down to where the marshal stood and told the men what happened.

“That MacCallister is a mighty cold man,” one of the marshal's men remarked.

“That's a man who saw his wife shot down before his eyes,” the marshal responded. “Miles Nelson should have had more sense than to attack MacCallister's Valley. Before that man yonder is done, he's gonna leave a bloody trail behind him.”

“You blame him?” the miner asked.

The marshal slowly shook his head. “Not one bit.”

* * *

Eastern newspapers quickly picked up on Jamie's vendetta and assigned reporters to travel west and cover the story. The leading newspaper in Boston assigned a Negro reporter (at his insistence) to cover it. Ben Franklin Washington, unclaimed son of Anne Woodville, whose real name was Anne Jefferson and whose parents were runaway slaves, was determined to stir up a hornet's nest. Ben was high yellow, but Negro nonetheless. He knew his mother had abandoned him at birth; knew his sister had passed for white all her life and was now married to one of Jamie Ian MacCallister's grandkids. Ben knew his real mother, in cahoots with his uncle, had tried to have him killed in Richmond, Virginia.
²

Ben Franklin Washington had no reason to love any member of his family. He was going to do his best to upset as many apple carts as he could.

And he was going to love every minute of it.

* * *

Ben's mother, now living in San Francisco and going under the name of Andrea Petri, read with much interest the greatly embellished newspaper account of Jamie's hunt for the Nelson gang. She laid the paper aside and shook her head. Kate was dead and Jamie was on the warpath. Incredible. Kate had been a good person; one of the few people in the world that Andrea had respect for. And Jamie ... well, the man had to be in his late fifties, at least. But Andrea knew that Jamie would be a man to be reckoned with no matter what his age. It was all very interesting. She would follow this bizarre story closely.

Her thoughts shifted to her brother. Andrea had hired private detectives in an attempt to find Ross, but so far, no luck. She wondered where in the world he might be living.

* * *

Her brother, Ross, now living under the name of Russell Clay, opened the Denver paper, adjusted his reading glasses, and carefully read the story about Jamie and the manhunt. Kate dead. He shook his head. Hard to believe. She had been such a vivacious woman. So full of life. And a genuinely nice person. The world had lost a lovely flower with her passing.

A real shame.

* * *

The dozen or so reporters from back east gathered at Valley, Colorado. They had decided (and it was a wise move) that if they were going to go traipsing around the Wild West, where red savage Indians abounded, there was strength in numbers. Valley now boasted a population of over six hundred (if one counted all the dogs and cats), a nice sized town for the time and the place. It was a little off the beaten path but quite a fine town once you got there. Mining, farming, and cattle and sheep ranching surrounded the area. The town had a weekly newspaper, the
Valley Dispatch,
and the visiting reporters were amazed at how professional the writing was.

They were equally amazed at how damn many MacCallisters there were in Valley. At least half the population had blond hair and blue eyes. Everyone seemed to be related.

The mayor was a MacCallister: Morgan.

The sheriff was a MacCallister: Matthew.

There were five deputies, and three of them were related to the MacCallisters.

Half the town council was related to the MacCallisters.

Jamie and Kate had nine kids living. Each of them had married and had about six or seven kids. Many of those kids were now of marrying age, and they seemed to be having about six or seven kids each, too.

Andrew and Rosanna, both well-known and highly respected musicians and actors, had homes just outside of town, where they spent many summers.

Falcon, who had married a half Cheyenne/half French lady, ranched and owned a large saloon and gambling hall in Valley. He was also well-known throughout the West as being a very bad man to fool with, lightning quick with his guns, and was a very close friend of the notorious Smoke Jensen: a man who was rumored to have killed over a hundred men before his twentieth birthday (a slight exaggeration, but not by much).
³

The original log homes of the first settling families had been carefully preserved, thanks to the efforts of Joleen MacCallister MacKensie, who was head of something called the Valley Historical Society.

For about a week, the reporters forgot all about the manhunt, enthralled as they were with the history of Valley and the settling families. The MacCallisters seemed not to have a bigoted or prejudiced bone in their bodies. Falcon had married an Indian princess, one of the sons of Matthew had married So Lin, the daughter of Hop Son, a Chinese man who had settled his family in the valley back in the 1840s, and one of Ellen Kathleen's sons had married Theresa Nunez.

“This has got to be the most mixed-up goddamn family I have ever seen in my life,” a reporter from New York City remarked one evening over drinks in the Wild Rose Saloon. The Wild Rose was owned by Falcon MacCallister.

“Don't say that too loud,” he was cautioned. “The way I have it figured is that there are approximately three hundred and twenty-four people in this town related to the MacCallisters. Hell, you never know who you're talking with. Look there.”

The reporters turned to stare as Falcon walked in through the batwings, dressed in a black suit with a sparkling white shirt and black string tie. Falcon was the spitting image of his father, with wide shoulders and arms so muscular his suits had to be tailor-made for him. Falcon's eyes were a pale cool blue, and his hair was the color of wheat. While in town, he generally wore only one gun, low and tied down. Few people knew about the derringer he carried behind his belt buckle.

“As much as I enjoy the comforts,” another reporter said, “hanging around here isn't getting the story written.”

“We found two men who have agreed to guide us. One of them is with Lawrence now, buying the last of the supplies. Hopefully, we'll be out of here mid-morning tomorrow.”

“It's going to be a grand adventure!” another said. “Probably the likes of which none of us will ever again experience.”

Another opened a map and laid it out flat on the table. “We'll ride to here,” he said, pointing to a series of pencil-drawn lines. “Then catch the train to here. Then ride over to this place. That's where some of the Nelson gang is said to hang out.”

“Who says?”

“The guides.” He looked at the faces around the table. “Does anybody have a better plan?”

No one did.

“What's the guide's name?”

“One is called Hank. I believe he called the other one Newly, or something like that.” Falcon had walked on past the reporters and did not hear the man correct himself. “No, not Newly. It was Newby. Yes. That's it. Newby.”

* * *

From Atlantic City, Jamie had drifted down to Bear River City. Just two years back, it had been a booming town as the railroad pushed through. Now the town was rapidly dwindling. In a few years it would all but disappear. A few more years, and it would vanish. Fort Bridger was located not far from there.

The commanding officer at the fort had been warned that Jamie was heading his way and was on the prod for the man who killed his wife.

The commanding officer filed the dispatch away and decided to stay out of civilian business. Besides, he couldn't fault Jamie one whit for what he was doing.

Jamie was playing a long shot, for the two men rumored to be holed up in or near the dying town might have left, or might never have been there. But Jamie had time. And he would check out every lead, no matter how shallow it might seem.

A patrol out of the fort hailed Jamie about ten miles from town. The sergeant was a man who Jamie remembered from the recent unpleasantness between the States. Although how the man could advance to top soldier in only a few years was a mystery to him. That got cleared up in a few heartbeats.

“Sergeant Mahony, Mr. MacCallister,” the top soldier said quickly. That was not the name he had used in the Confederate Army. He had probably taken the name of a dead Union sergeant toward the end of the war.

“Sergeant Major,” Jamie said with a smile. “I don't recall ever meeting you.”

The top soldier breathed a lot easier with that. “I seen you one time during a truce when you was heppin' bring in some Union wounded. I remembered you. Reason I give you a shout, Colonel, was they's two men in town waitin' to kill you. They've made their brags about it.”

“I'm hard to kill, Top Soldier.”

“Yes, sir. I know that for a pure-dee fact.”

“These men in town . . . Phil Howard and Fred Allison?”

“That's them, Colonel. I ‘spect they're waitin' in the Lucky Lady saloon, havin' a whiskey.”

Jamie's smile was more like the snarl of a wolf. “I hope they enjoy their drinks. In a few hours they'll be in hell!”

The town was quickly dying. As Jamie rode up the street, he could see many buildings that now stood empty. Soon the wind and rain would begin to rot the lumber; a careless match would add to the demise of some of the structures.

Jamie stabled his horses, brushed the dust of the trail from his clothing, and checked into the one hotel remaining. And it wasn't much.

“I want my room swept and dusted clean, freshly washed sheets on the bed,” he told the clerk. “Turn the tick. If I find bugs in my bed, you won't be happy with me.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. MacCallister,” the clerk was quick to oblige. “I'll have that done right now. We also have bathing facilities. Would you like for me to have the water heated?”

“Do that. Stow my gear in the room. I'll be back shortly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there law in this town?”

“Not no more, sir.”

“Fine. That uncomplicates matters.”

Jamie walked across the street to the saloon, shoved open the batwings and stepped in, his eyes sweeping the large room. He walked to the long bar and ordered a glass of beer. “Fred Allison and Phil Howard,” he said to the bartender. “They been in here?”

“Just left, Mr. MacCallister. When you rode in. Said they'd be waitin' out in the street for you anytime you was ready to die.”

“Suits me.” Jamie drained his glass and walked out the back door.

Jamie Ian MacCallister was many things, among them being a very practical man. The opinions of certain unworldly people notwithstanding (a hundred years later, that group would be known as liberal democrats; in Louisiana those types of people are said to have an alligator mouth and a hummingbird ass), he knew there was no such thing as a fair fight. There was a winner and a loser, and that was all. And when your life, the lives of your loved ones, or your property were on the line, it didn't matter how you won, just do it.

Jamie walked the littered alley and stepped out at the edge of town. His hands were filled with Colts, hammers back. About fifty feet from him, two men were standing in the street, yards apart, each of them carrying sawed-off shotguns.

“Taking no chances, huh, boys?” Jamie called.

The men whirled around and fired the shotguns, the heavy charges blowing off chunks of the building where Jamie had been standing.

But as he spoke, Jamie was moving. He hit the ground belly down and fired his Colts. One slug punched a hole in the belly of Phil Howard, doubling him over and setting him down hard in the street. As he sat down, he pulled the trigger to the second barrel of the Greener and blew off all the toes on his left foot. The other slug went high and caught Fred Allison in the throat, tearing a great hole in the back of the man's neck as it exited.

Jamie stood up by the buckshot-torn corner of the building. Both men died within minutes of each other. Jamie walked over to the bodies and removed their money belts.

“The money is stolen,” he told the gathering crowd. “It belongs to Wells Fargo and to the bank in Valley, Colorado.” He slung the money belts over his shoulder and picked up one of the sawed-off shotguns. It was a good gun; well made. Jamie took that and a sack of shells lying by the body. His eyes found the desk clerk from the hotel. “I'll have my bath now,” he told the man, then turned and walked up the street. He stepped into the hotel without looking back at the bloody street and the stunned crowd.

* * *

Roscoe, who had changed his name to Ross LeBeau and then to Russell Clay, was shocked right down to the soles of his handmade shoes when he looked up from studying the Denver Hotel's menu to see his sister's child, his own niece, Page Woodville Haywood, walking into the lobby of the hotel, her husband with her.

Great God in Heaven! Ross thought, once his heart resumed its beating.

The handsome couple were seated across the room from Ross, with Page's back to him. As soon as they were seated, Ross left the dining room as quickly as possible, with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances.

The world is certainly becoming a smaller place, he thought, as the doorman hailed a carriage for him. Ross would hire a detective to find out what Page and her husband were doing in Denver.

Then he didn't know what he'd do.

* * *

Ben Franklin Washington arrived in the West with three other reporters, a photographer, an artist, a man who was gathering material for a book he was writing on the Wild West, the sons of three wealthy industrialists from back east who came along for the adventure of it all (they left their wives behind and brought their girlfriends), a couple of gofers, several valets, two cooks, and four so-called professional mercenaries who were hired as bodyguards.

They brought enough equipment with them to outfit a small army. They rode the trains as far as they could, then bought wagons, teams, riding horses, and hired men to drive the wagons.

“It's all so, well, thrilling and grand!” cooed Miss Evelyn Wadsworth (better known as Fifi the Feathered Fan Lady to a certain segment of New Yorkers who frequented the burlesque houses), as she took in all the sights and sounds (and smells) of the raw frontier town.

“It is that,” her companion, Marshall Henry Ludlow, agreed. “What say you, Richard?”

“Oh, quite,” Richard Farnsworth replied. Dickie to his friends.

“I must say, it's all rather primitive,” Charles Bennett remarked. Chuckie to his friends. “I've never seen so many guns in my life.”

“I'm awed and overwhelmed and a little frightened,” the Brooklyn-born Rebecca Willingham said, with an accent so pronounced a voice coach would have been reduced to tears of despair. Rebecca was better known as Lulu, in that part of the city where at night the glass of the lanterns glowed red.

Dickie put an arm around her waist. “I'll personally see that no harm befalls you, dear.”

Dickie couldn't protect a pork chop from a devout Jew, but everybody has illusions.

However, as the three former fraternity brothers were about to discover, the western frontier was no place to put those illusions to the test.

Mary Marie O'Donnell, a flaming redhead with a scattering of freckles across her nose, whose family had come over from Dublin, and who possessed more common sense in her little finger than the others did in their entire bodies, took one look around her and decided that she had made the right decision by agreeing to accompany Chuckie to the Wild West. It was indeed a grand place. “All this fine land for the homesteadin',” she muttered. “New York City, ye've seen the last of this Irish lassie.”

One burly teamster that the odd group had hired took a hard look at his employers just before they pulled out the next morning, and summed up the feeling of the other drivers. “Lord have mercy on my soul!”

* * *

It was nearing dark when Jamie topped the ridge and looked down at the small cluster of buildings standing around the larger structure that was the trading post. An army fort had just been constructed not far from the trading post. It had started out as Fort Augur, but recently changed to Camp Brown, in honor of Captain Fredrick H. Brown who had been killed in '66 in the Fetterman massacre. The camp would be abandoned in early '71.

Jamie stripped the saddle and pack frame from his animals and stabled them. He rubbed down his horses and saw that they both had ample feed and water before even thinking about seeing to his own needs.

Jamie had bathed that morning in the cold waters of a creek and, after stropping his razor, had carefully shaved around his neatly trimmed beard and moustache; like his close-cropped hair, the beard and moustache were gray. A few weeks back he had stopped in a Shoshoni village, spent a few days with them, and traded for new buckskins, moccasins, and leggins.

Now he had to resupply, for he was low on some things and completely out of coffee, bacon, and beans.

He entered the low-ceilinged trading post and stepped to one side, as was his habit, carefully looking all about him, sizing up the half dozen or so men sitting at the rough-hewn tables, playing cards and drinking snake-head whiskey. (Some who made their own whiskey actually did toss in a few snake heads during the “curing” process, claiming it added flavor to the brew. History does not record if anyone died because of that practice.)

Jamie ordered a plate of stew from the counterman and sat down at a vacant table. Before his meal arrived, a question was thrown at him, springing out of the darkness of the far smoky depths of the room.

“You be Jamie MacCallister?”

“I am.”

“I got a message for you, MacCallister: Call off your hunt.”

“And if I don't?”

“You'll not live to see summer turn to fall.”

The heaping plate of stew was placed before him, and it smelled good. Jamie tore off a hunk of bread and sopped up some liquid, chewing slowly, savoring the flavor of food not cooked on the trail.

“You hear me, MacCallister?” the unknown questioner asked.

“I hear you. Now leave me alone and let me enjoy my meal.”

“Look here, MacCallister,” the man persisted. “Most of them boys you're a-huntin' didn't put no lead in your wife.”

“They were there,” Jamie replied, laying down the unwritten code of the West. “They're all thieves, murderers, rapists, and worse. And I'm going to see that every one of them steps up and shakes hands with the devil. Now leave me alone.”

A chair was pushed back, and boots struck the floor. Jamie did not look up from the food as the boots walked to the bar. “Miles Nelson says the killin' of your wife was not done deliberate. It was an accident.”

“She's still dead.”

“Goddamn you, MacCallister. Cain't nobody reason with you about this thing?”

“No.”

“Then stand up and face me, MacCallister!”

Jamie pushed his plate from him. “Were you with the gang that attacked Valley?”

“No.”

“Then I have no quarrel with you.”

“My name's Jones.”

“That's good, Jones. Everybody ought to know their name.”

Jones cursed at that. “My younger brother rides with the Nelson gang.”

“I see. And you're going to stop me from killing him, right?”

“That's right, MacCallister.”

“Is he worth it, Jones?” Jamie asked softly. “Really worth it?”

“He's my brother, MacCallister! Now stand up and face me.”

Jamie moved very quickly. Not as fast as when he was thirty, but fast enough. He grabbed a chair and threw it at the man. The man's hands flew up from the butts of his guns to protect his face. Jamie closed the distance between them and slammed a big fist into Jones's face, pulping his lips. He followed that with a left hook that smashed into the man's jaw, then hit him twice more in the face. Jones sank to the floor, blood streaming from mouth and nose.

Jamie jerked the man's guns from leather and laid them on the bar. He looked at the barkeep. “Put those away. Unless you want a killing in this place.”

Jamie walked back to the table and resumed his eating. Several men rose to help Jones to his feet.

“I'll stop you, MacCallister,” Jones mumbled through mashed and bloody lips. “You'll not bring no harm to my little brother.”

“Stay out of it,” Jamie warned. “Go on back home and keep clear of me. Your brother is riding with the worst of scum and filth. The Nelson gang has robbed and raped and killed and tortured from Kansas to California. And your brother Lloyd is a part of it. When you take up for him, that makes you no better. Don't you ever cross my trail again.”

Jamie finished his meal, bought his supplies, and walked over to the livery. He made himself a bed in the hayloft and wrapped up in his blankets. If anyone came into the livery, Buck would warn him. Jamie could understand taking up for kin, but not when kin was clearly in the wrong. That he could not understand. Lloyd Jones had dodgers out on him from Kansas to California, with charges ranging from rape to murder, and the wanted posters read dead or alive. Every member of the Nelson gang was wanted dead or alive.

Wanted dead or alive by the law.

Just dead by Jamie.

* * *

Jamie pulled out before any lamplights or candles were glowing in the trading post or any of the buildings surrounding it. Although he wished it were not so, Jamie was certain he would run into Jones again. The man seemed hell-bent on getting himself killed. All because of his worthless brother. Perhaps the man would come to his senses, but Jamie doubted it.

Jamie headed straight west, crossing over into Utah. He camped along the Bear River for a couple of days, resting his horses, and then moved on toward the Mormon settlements just west of the Wasatch Range, along the Great Salt Lake.

He had no way of knowing there were dozens of reporters waiting there for him.

Ben Franklin Washington among them.

What Jamie did know was that four of Miles Nelson's men were in the area, hanging out somewhere between Ogden and Logan. And he had learned that four more of the gang were hiding out north of there, up in Southern Idaho. They would be next on the list.

A farmer in a wagon whoaed his team upon spotting Jamie and hailed him. “You'd be Jamie MacCallister, sir?”

“I would,”Jamie replied with a smile, always surprised that so many people knew his face.

“Whole passel of newspaper writers waitin' for you in town,” the farmer told him. “Snoopin' around and askin' a bunch of fool questions. But them thugs that was in the gang that killed your wife is just north and some east of Brigham City, at a tradin' post. The law won't interfere, Mr. MacCallister. Long as no innocent person gets hurt.”