William Johnstone - Eyes of Eagles

“Is anybody gonna help me get Hart to his feet?” Marwick said, walking over to the unconscious Olmstead.

No one in the crowd made a move.

Jamie felt eyes on him and turned his head. John Jackson was staring straight at him, the hate shining bright and hard. Jamie knew then, but did not know why, that he had made a terrible enemy of the man.

Sheriff Marwick dragged Hart Olmstead off the road while Jackson fetched a bucket of water from the well. Sam was drying his face and upper body with a rag one of the neighbors had handed him. Jackson poured the bucket of well water on Olmstead’s head and the man groaned and rolled over. Jamie had never before witnessed such a beating as this one — and he was not alone, neither had most of the others present.

Hart Olmstead’s face was cut, battered, bruised, and bloody. One eye was completely closed and one ear swollen nearly three times its normal size. His lips were swollen and his nose was mashed all over the center of his face. On his bare torso, there were huge splotches of red and blue/green where Sam’s fists had landed.

Olmstead moaned and sat up, with a little help from Marwick. Through his one good eye, he glared balefully first at Sam Montgomery then at Jamie. He didn’t have to say a word. The eye spoke silent hatred.

“This is not over, Montgomery,” Hart pushed the words past swollen lips.

“It is as far as I am concerned,” Sam told him, slipping into his shirt he’d hung on the split-rail fence.

“I’ll kill you someday,” Hart said.

“Shut up, Hart,” Sheriff Marwick told him. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Son of a bitch!” Hart said to Sam.

Sam stiffened, for that was an insult that warranted killing.

“He didn’t necessarily say that to you, Sam!” John Jackson said hurriedly. “Just take it easy, Sam. Your name wasn’t connected with that oath.”

“That’s true, Sam,” a neighbor said. He looked at Hart, now standing on his feet, leaning against the sheriff. “You best clear this up, Olmstead. Did you hurl that insult at Sam?”

Hart stood for a few seconds, then slowly shook his head. He was in no shape for a pistol affair, and he knew it. “No. Of course not.”

“I’ll accept that,” Sam said.

Both Marwick and Jackson breathed a bit easier. Neither of them wanted to see a duel between Sam and Hart. Dueling was still very common. It had not been that many years back that Andrew Jackson and Thomas Hart Benton had gone at each other with pistol and dirk in a Nashville, Tennessee, hotel, with Jackson coming out on the short end of that fight.

It took both Marwick and John Jackson to get Olmstead into the saddle, with Olmstead muttering fearful curses, carefully directed at no one in particular. Olmstead did not once look at Sam. John passed the reins to him and then the men climbed onto their mounts and started slowly up the road.

“No good will come of this,” Sam said to no one in particular. “I have just made a mortal enemy, for Hart Olmstead is a good hater.”

“You whipped him fair, Sam,” Luke said. “You did not use no boots on him nor bitin’ or eye-gougin’.”

“That’s the problem, Luke. I whipped him. And he’ll not forget it. Not ever.”

“You men gather over yonder under the shade tree,” Sarah called from the open door to the house. “We’ll bring coffee and bread and molasses out. I don’t want you stomping around in this house with your muddy boots.”

“By the Lord!” Mason said. “That was a good fight, it was. I don’t recall ever seein’ none better.”

While the men laughed and gathered under the huge old tree by the side of the house, Jamie slipped inside and put Sam’s pistol back into the holster, then quickly rejoined the men as Sarah and the other ladies were bringing out refreshments.

Sam sidled over to Jamie and whispered, “Did you put my pistol back, Jamie?”

Without changing expression, Jamie said, “Yes, sir.”

“Would you have used it, lad?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ummm,” was all Sam ever said about that.

Five

The following morning, Jamie started doing chores before Sam or Sarah were even out of bed. He had not forgotten how to milk — but he had forgotten how a tail full of burrs felt when it came in fast and hard contact with the side of his head — and had the cow milked, the hogs slopped, the eggs gathered, and firewood stacked neatly when a still tousled-haired and sleepy-eyed Sam stuck his head out the back door and called to him.

“Yes, sir?” Jamie said, walking up to the back door of the home.

“How long have you been up, lad?”

“Since the cow started lowing.”

Sam smiled. “That fight yesterday must have taken more out of me than I thought. Well . . . Sarah says to tell you that breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. Why don’t you come on inside and help me grind the beans and we’ll have some coffee in no time.”

“All right, sir.”

Sam did not say anything about the way Jamie was dressed. In his buckskins. It was not that it was unusual dress for the time, for many men still wore skins, but for Jamie... he would have to somehow point out that it would be best if he dressed more like a schoolboy, which he would be in a short time. The sooner the townspeople forgot he had once been a Shawnee captive, the better for everybody. He lifted his gaze. Jamie was seated at the table, watching him.

The boy was so damn quick it startled Sam.

“I’ll wear my skins working out here, sir. But I had to save the other clothes. I’ve only got the one set.”

Sarah gasped as she worked at the stove and Sam closed his eyes and shook his head. “Jamie... I’m sorry. Sarah, how’s about us going into town today? We’ll get Jamie all decked out in store-bought shirts and britches.”

“What a grand idea!” She whirled around from the stove. “And I have to get some things for the to-do this Saturday night. Yes. We’ll all go into town to Abe Caney’s store. But first the cow has to be milked, the hogs slopped, the eggs...” Her eyes fell on the basket of eggs on a chopping block.

“Jamie did all that while we were still abed, Sarah,” Sam said softly. “I think we have us a godsend here.”

“You did it all, Jamie?” Sarah asked.

“It wasn’t that much. If I didn’t do at least that much before the others got out of their robes back at the Shawnee town, I got a beating, I learned to do things fast and right the first time.”

Tears sprang into Sarah’s eyes. Sam ducked his head for a few seconds. “You’ll get no beatings here, Jamie,” she said.

Sam lifted his head and there was a twinkle in his eyes. “Besides, I’m not so sure I could whip Jamie.”

* * *

Abe Caney pulled Sam off to one side while Sarah was busy shopping. “That must have been some fight out at your place yesterday, Sam. The whole town’s talking about it.”

“It’s over, Abe. I hope I never have to have another one.”

But Abe was eager for details. “Where’d you learn to fight, Sam? You’re known as a peaceable man.”

“My father insisted I learn all forms of self-defense, Abe. From fencing to bare-knuckle boxing. His father knew James Figg, really the first bare-knuckle champion.”

While Sarah shopped and Sam and Abe chatted, Jamie stood on the porch of the store and watched as several boys walked up the street. He had a hunch they would angle over to him, and they did.

Jamie did not see the Reverend Hugh Callaway walk up the short street and stop a dozen yards from where Jamie stood, leaning up against a post and sucking on a piece of peppermint candy. Nor did he know that two of the boys were sons of John Jackson and Hart Olmstead. He would learn that very soon.