Scream of Eagles

Book 4: Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

THE GREATEST WESTERN WRITER OF THE 21ST CENTURY LIFE IS CHEAP IN ARIZONA TERRITORY Raised by the Shawnee, Jamie Ian MacCallister survived the bloodshed of the Alamo and the Civil War. With each victory, the MacCallister legend grew—as violent and unpredictable as the land that gave him life. Now the battle has gotten personal: the brutal murder of his wife at the hands of the wild Miles Nelson gang. Jamie’s journey of revenge will take him from Atlantic City’s bustling port of thieves, con men and whores to the pristine and deadly landscape of the Colorado Rockies…and finally to a place called Little Big Horn. All he has at his side are his sons and an unquenchable thirst for justice—MacCallister style.

Release date: July 26, 2016

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 310

Sample

Jamie Ian MacCallister and his wife Kate were both fifteen years old when they were married in the river town of New Madrid, Missouri. They remained married and faithful and true to one another for forty-five years. By the time Kate died in Jamie’s arms after an outlaw raid on the Colorado town they helped found, Jamie and Kate had produced a houseful of kids and dozens of grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Jamie had already lived longer than many men of that time, but somebody forgot to tell Jamie about that. For a man his age, he was still bull strong and wang-leather tough. His hair was gray, but his heart was young. He used eyeglasses to read fine print, but he sure didn’t need glasses to shoot.

The loss of Kate hit Jamie harder than anything ever had over the long and tumultuous years. For several weeks after her violent and untimely death, Jamie could not clearly focus on anything except her dying and the lonely grave overlooking MacCallister’s Valley. He holed up deep in the mountains and let his grief take control for a time.

Jamie relived over and over each and every memory shared with Kate. The good and the bad. The laughter and the tears. The pain and the pleasure.

The pleasure far outweighed the pain.

After a couple of weeks, Jamie began to realize that Kate would not want him doing this. All the grieving in the world would not bring her back from the grave. She was at peace now, having climbed the Starry Path to be greeted by Man Above. She would wait there for him.

Jamie looked up at the high cloudless blue of the sky. He sighed and then smiled. “You know what I have to do, Kate. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do it. Of course,” he said drily, “I might not live much longer doing it. But I reckon that would be all right, too. ’Cause then I’d be with you.”

Jamie buckled on his pistols. Twin .44s, model 60 conversion. He wiped the dust off his rifle, a Winchester model 68. He tidied up his camp, packed the frame on the packhorse, and saddled up his big, mean-eyed buckskin. One of his grandchildren—he couldn’t remember which one, much less the child’s name, Kate had always kept track of those things—had named the huge animal Buck.

It was turning colder now, with winter not far off. During the weeks that Jamie had spent wrapped in his grief, those responsible for the attack on MacCallister’s Valley, and the death of Kate, the Miles Nelson gang, would have scattered like dust in the wind. Any trail would be as cold as the stars.

“I got a few good years left in me,” Jamie muttered. Buck swung his big head around to look at him. “And I’ll use them finding you all. My son Matthew talks of book law and justice. That’s his way. I’ll have justice my way.”

He swung easily into the saddle, the movements like a man twenty years younger.

“I’ll find you all,” Jamie repeated. “And I’ll kill you.”

Overhead, soaring on the winds, an eagle screamed.

Jamie topped the crest and looked down at the town nestled deep in the Rockies. Another mining town. A number of buildings with boarded-up windows told him that already the gold or the silver was playing out and the miners were moving on. What made him certain the town was dying was that among the empty buildings were several saloons.

“Let’s go find you boys a warm stall and some hay to munch on,”Jamie spoke to his horses. “You both deserve a good rest. It’s cold this day.”

About twenty degrees above zero, with the ground covered with snow. Jamie wasn’t sure, but he thought he had passed the new year in a cave, sitting out a blizzard. “That would make it 1870,” he muttered, his breath steaming the air. “Kate’s been gone almost six months now.” And, he thought, the trail I’ve been trying to find is as cold as the weather.

Almost six months, Kate lying cold in her grave.

No, he corrected his thoughts as he walked his horses onto the wide street, deep-rutted from the wheels of many heavily laden wagons. That is only the shell that contained the flesh and blood of my Kate. Her soul is with Man Above.

Waiting for me.

Jamie stabled his horses at the livery and told the man to brush and curry the packhorse. “Don’t touch Buck,” he warned. “He bites and kicks.”

“I wouldn’t touch that big ugly son of a bitch for fifty dollars,” the young man said. He jumped back just in time to avoid the flashing teeth of Buck, who was doing his best to take a chunk out of the livery man’s arm.

“Don’t hurt his feelings,” Jamie cautioned him with a small smile. The smiles were coming more often now, but they were still rare. “He’s very sensitive.”

The young man rolled his eyes and began forking hay into the stall, muttering about horses in general and Buck in particular.

Jamie took his rifle and saddlebags and walked up the boardwalk to the only hotel that was still open in the dying town. He checked in and stowed his gear. The desk clerk froze as still as death when he reversed the book and read the name.

Jamie Ian MacCallister.

The legend himself. In person. In his hotel. My God!

The clerk took in Jamie’s size. Big as a mountain. His hair was almost all gray, but the big man moved like a huge puma. The clerk sensed danger shrouding Jamie like clouds on the high peaks.

“I’ll have a haircut and a bath,” Jamie said. “Where’s the barber shop?”

“Just across the street, sir. To your left as you leave the hotel. May I say that it is an honor to have you here, sir. I . . .”

But Jamie was already out the door. The clerk called for one of his swampers and told the rummy to spread the news. Man Who Is Not Afraid was in town.

Jamie soaped and scrubbed and did it again with buckets of hot water. Then he had the barber cut his long hair short. After Jamie had left, the barber carefully swept up the graying hair. There were people who would pay a lot of money for a few strands of the hair of the man many Indians still called Man Who Plays With Wolves. Still others called the living legend Bear Killer.

Others called him one big mean son of a bitch, but never to his face.

Dusk was settling over the mountains as Jamie went into the hotel bar and ordered a whiskey. “From the good bottle,” he told the barkeep. He would linger over the amber liquid, savoring the hard flavor, and then have dinner. The menu on the chalkboard was beef and potatoes.

The men who had lined the bar shifted to one side, giving Jamie the entire left side of the long mahogany. Everyone in the West knew the story of the Miles Nelson attack on MacCallister’s Valley, the death of Kate, and that Jamie was on the prod.

After ordering his whiskey, Jamie spoke to no one in the bar, and no one spoke directly to him. A man wearing a star on his coat entered the room, looked at Jamie for a short time, then left. He did not leave because of fear, only because he knew MacCallister’s reputation and knew Jamie would not deliberately provoke an argument with any innocent citizen.

But the marshal also knew there were a couple of ol’ boys in town who thought themselves to be tough, and when they heard that MacCallister was in town, they would brace him in hopes of gaining a reputation. The marshal didn’t want to be around when that happened. He knew that while the two so-called “bad men” were strutting around, talking about what they’d do to MacCallister, Jamie would just shoot them and be done with it.

And when the smoke had cleared, MacCallister would go eat supper.

The marshal went home to eat his own supper, and to hell with those two clowns who thought they were tough. In about fifteen minutes, or less, they wouldn’t be tough—they’d just be dead. And in two days, forgotten.

Jamie had just lifted the glass to his lips when the front door banged open and cold air swept through the barroom. Jamie did not turn his head to see who it was. He had positioned himself so he could watch the front door by using the long mirror behind the bar.

Jamie sighed as he watched the two young men. Trouble, he thought. Local toughs wanting to make a reputation. Go away, boys. Go away.

The pair swaggered toward the bar. Both of them were wearing two guns, low and tied down.

Damn! Jamie thought.

The young men bellied up to the bar, and one called for whiskey in too loud a tone.

The barkeep slid a bottle down to them. He was being very careful to stay clear of the line of fire. The knot of men at the opposite end of the bar left to take tables. No one wanted to get shot.

“Howdy there, old-timer. The name’s Pullen,” one of the young men said. “Jim Pullen. You heared of me, I reckon.”

“Can’t say as I have,” Jamie said, after taking a small sip of whiskey. Jamie was not really a drinking man, but he did enjoy one or two drinks occasionally.

“Oh, yeah? You don’t get around much, do you? Well, I reckon a man of your advanced age pretty much has to stay close to hearth and home.”

Jamie smiled. There wasn’t much of the West he hadn’t seen at one time or the other.

“My pard, here, is Black Jack Perkins. I know you’ve heared of him.”

“Can’t say as I have, boy.”

“Well, he killed a man in Black Hawk, he did.”1

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jamie said, after taking another sip of whiskey. “Terrible thing, having to kill a man.”

“Huh ! Well, I killed my share of men, too. I ain’t lost no sleep over it.”

Jamie said nothing. He placed his shot glass on the polished bar and waited. He had left his heavy winter coat up in his room and wore a waist-length leather jacket over a dark shirt. Dark trousers and boots. Out of long habit, he had slipped the leather thongs off the hammers of his twin Colts before entering the barroom. He waited.

“You’re Jamie MacCallister, ain’t you?” Black Jack asked, stepping away from the bar and facing Jamie.

“That’s right.”

“I been hearin’ ’bout you all my life. I’m sick of it. I don’t think you done half of what people say you done. I think most of it was piff and padoodle. Now what do you think about that?”

Jamie was growing very weary of the pair of would-be toughs. But he didn’t want to kill either of them. He turned to face the young man and smiled. He lifted one hand and waggled a finger at Black Jack. “Come here, boy.”

Black Jack strutted up to Jamie, a curious expression on his face.

Jamie hit him with a left that produced a sound much like a watermelon struck with the flat side of a shovel. Jerking one of the young man’s guns from leather, and holding the nearly unconscious Black Jack up between himself and Pullen, Jamie closed the few feet and laid the barrel of the gun against Pullen’s head. Jim Pullen hit the floor, his lights turned out.

Jamie popped Black Jack again, and Black Jack joined his buddy on the floor for a nap. He took their pistols and walked out back to the privy, dropping the six-shooters down the twin holes. They disappeared forever with a splash.

Back in the bar, the men seated at the tables winced at the power in those big arms as Jamie reached down with both hands and grabbed the sleeping young men by the backs of their shirt collars and dragged them outside, depositing them both in the street.

Returning to the warmth of the bar, Jamie signaled the barkeep for another drink and then turned to the crowd. “Am I going to have any more trouble here tonight?”

The men slowly and solemnly shook their heads.

“Fine,”Jamie said, then took his drink into the restaurant and sat down and ordered dinner. Outside, a citizen helped one of the marshal’s deputies drag the unconscious young men across the street. The deputy tossed them into a jail cell and slammed and locked the door.

“Damn fools,” the citizen said.

“They’re lucky MacCallister didn’t kill them,” the deputy said. “He may be gettin’ on in years, but that is still one war hoss, and no man to brace.”

“Reckon how long he’ll stay in town?” the citizen questioned.

“As long as he damn well pleases,” the deputy replied.

“It’s from Pa!” Matthew shouted with a wide grin, waving the envelope the stage driver had handed him. Matthew looked up at the driver. “Where’d you get this, Luke?”

“Another driver give it to me. It’s been passed around some, Matt. I figure it’s taken near’bout two months to get here.”

Matthew sat down on the porch of the Goldman Mercantile Store and carefully opened the envelope. Abe and Rebecca Goldman were long dead, the store now operated by their youngest son, Tobias.

The entire town, more than five hundred people, soon gathered around, waiting in silence as Matthew read the letter.

“Pa’s well,” Matthew finally said. Matthew was one of triplets—Matthew, Morgan, and Megan—born in 1832. “Pa was in Central City when he wrote this. He’s picked up the trail of some of the Nelson gang and was leavin’ out for Wyoming next mornin’.”

“What’s the date?” Matt’s youngest sister, Joleen, asked.

“There ain’t any. Hush up and listen.”

“Don’t tell me to shush, you ox!”

“Shut up, the both of you! ”Jamie Ian told his brother and sister. “Read,” he told Matt.

“There ain’t much more.”

“Isn’t,” Joleen corrected.

Matt sighed and returned to the letter. “Pa says to tend to Ma’s grave site and plant some flowers around about. He says if he comes back here and finds the site all grown up with weeds, somebody’s butt is gonna be in trouble.” He looked up into the faces of his brothers and sisters, in-laws and nieces and nephews and what have you. “That’s it.”

“I wonder where Pa is now?” Megan said.

“Atlantic City,” Jamie read the faded wooden sign, “Welcomes You.”

Jamie had bypassed South Pass City, giving it a wide berth and riding on toward Atlantic City. He had heard that several of the men he was seeking were loafing around that mining town, gambling and whoring and making trouble.

Jamie was about to put an end to all that.

The government had recently started building a fort near Atlantic City. It would be named Fort Stambaugh, after a first lieutenant who had been killed by Indians near Miner’s Delight. It would be abandoned in eight years.

After the raid on MacCallister’s Valley, the Miles Nelson gang had broken up and scattered. The Pinkertons and Wells Fargo detectives, many sheriffs and town marshals all over the West, as well as federal marshals and the U.S. Army, were after them. With the gold and money taken from the bank and the stagecoach, the gang members could live well for a couple of years. By then, the heat would be off them and they could regroup . . . or so they thought.

But they hadn’t taken into consideration one Jamie Ian MacCallister dogging their trail, riding with hard revenge burning in his trail-wise eyes.

When the gang had struck MacCallister’s Valley, the Nelson gang was the largest in all the West. Actually there were five gangs, each with about fifteen men, robbing and raping and looting and burning from Kansas to California. Miles had pulled them all together for the raid that killed Jamie’s wife. Twenty of the gang had been killed, wounded, or captured during the raid in the valley. That left about fifty-five outlaws still on the loose. Fifty-five of the meanest, sorriest, most worthless dredges of humanity ever assembled.

It had taken Jamie about six months to do it, but he had put together a list of men who were part of the Miles Nelson gang. To do so, he had visited with every sheriff and marshal in every town he passed through, looking at dodgers and talking with men in lock-up. A rustler might steal your cattle, but when it came to raping and killing women, shooting little kids down in the street, that was going too far. And most of the men in jail talked to Jamie.

Jamie had a list of fifty-one names, and if it took him the rest of his life, he was going to visit each name. After the visit, he would draw a line through that man’s name.

These men had robbed him of the most precious thing in his life.

Kate.

And if it cost him his own life checking off those names, well, so be it. Without Kate he was nothing.

Just . . . nothing at all.

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 . . .