William Johnstone - Eyes of Eagles

Bradford turned to him. “Nor do I need advice from the likes of you, Fontaine. When I want advice from a damn Injun lover, I’ll ask for it.”

The well-dressed man did not take offense. Instead, he merely smiled. “Bradford, I think before this moment passes, you will never need advice from anyone again.”

Bradford blinked, the message in those words going right by him. He shook his head and turned back to Jamie, who had turned his back to him and was shopping for something for Kate.

“Boy!” Bradford’s tone was sharp. “You do not turn your ass to me.”

Bradford did not see the tight smile briefly pass Jamie’s lips. The lout had no way of seeing into Jamie’s soul; of being a witness to the cold savage wildness welling up within him. The ruffian had no way of knowing how close he stood to death. Jamie turned, ever so slowly and faced the man. His blue eyes blazed with fury.

Jamie said, “Sir, I do not know who you are, nor do I care. But you are pushing me. And I do not like to be pushed. I beg you to leave me alone. I will say no more on the matter.”

He once more turned to look at a glass case containing women’s brooches and other foofaraws that women liked so much. Jamie heard boots thud against the floor and watched in the reflection from the glass as the angry man rushed toward him. Just as he could smell the whiskey on the man’s breath and the smell of his unwashed body, just as he watched the man reach for him, Jamie drove the butt of his rifle into the man’s stomach. The air whooshed out of the man and he doubled over, dropping to his knees on the floor. Jamie returned his gaze to the assortment of jewelry.

Fontaine smiled. He had been right in his assessment of the lad. This young man was one calm and collected person to be so young.

Bradford struggled to his feet, one hand holding his bruised belly. The hand hovered near the butt of a pistol jammed behind his wide belt.

“Don’t,” Jamie warned him, his tone icy cold. “I wish no further trouble with you. Just leave me alone.”

Bradford looked about him. The others in the store, except for his few equally dirty and untidy friends at the plank bar, were frowning at him. Several of the men had their hands ready to jerk pistols in defense of the tall young man. The women in the store had taken cover behind counters.

“You put that rifle down and step outside,” Bradford threw down the challenge. “We’ll settle this man to man.”

“Fists or knives?” Jamie asked coolly.

Fontaine smiled and cut his eyes to Smith, standing behind the counter. Smith minutely nodded his head in silent agreement.

Bradford was taken aback by the coldness of the question.

“Watch him, young man,” a man called from the depths of the store. “He’s a bad one.”

“No,” Jamie said. “He just smells bad, that’s all.”

Bradford cried out and jumped at Jamie, one big fist swinging at Jamie’s head. Jamie caught the arm, one strong hand gripping the wrist and the other hand gripping the forearm, turned, and threw the angry thug over his hip and shoulder. Bradford landed near the doors with a thud that shook the contents of the shelves.

Several men customers drew their pistols and faced Bradford’s friends. One of them held out his hands. “It’s his fight. We’ll not interfere. But Bradford was only funnin’ with the lad. There was no need for it to go this far.”

Jamie laid his rifle on the counter. “Keep an eye on that for me, please, sir. I shall be back in a moment.” Jamie stepped around the still addled Bradford and walked outside. He stood in the road, waiting.

“Bradford,” one of the men at the bar called, as the fallen thug was getting slowly to his boots. “Return to the bar and have a drink. Don’t pursue that lad. There’s something almighty queer about this.”

“Sound advice, Bradford,” Fontaine said. “Take it.”

“You go to hell!” Bradford said, and stormed out the open doors. He hit the covered porch on the run and threw himself at Jamie.

Jamie sidestepped and Bradford kissed the dirt of the road, landing on his belly and face and knocking the wind from himself. He crawled to his knees, spitting out dirt and fouling the air with his wild cursing.

The customers in the store all gathered on the porch, well-dressed gentlemen, buckskin-clad men, and ladies with parasols. Entertainment was where one found it in the young settlement.

“You’ll die for this!” Bradford said.

Jamie said nothing. He stood in the road and waited. Bradford rushed him, making the same mistake as before. Jamie tripped the man and sent him stumbling along like a drunkard. Bradford recovered only when a hitchrail stopped him. He caught his breath and turned around, finally learning his lesson. He raised his fists and advanced slowly toward Jamie.

When Bradford drew close, Jamie suddenly leaped at the man, both his moccasins striking the older man in the chest and knocking him to the ground. Jamie landed gracefully on his feet and waited.

No one noticed the lone dusty rider who had come in from the north and dismounted. He now stood watching the fight with undisguised interest.

Angry to his core, for he was known throughout as a rough and tumble fighter who rarely was bested, Bradford lost all sense of reason and charged Jamie, wanting to crush the life from the tall young man. Jamie stopped the man cold with a crashing right fist that pulped the man’s lips and sprayed blood. Jamie followed that with a left to the stomach and another right to Bradford’s jaw that rocked the man back. Jamie hammered at the lout with lefts and rights that smashed his nose, split the skin under his eyes, and knocked out several teeth. As Bradford stood nearly helpless, swaying in the road, Jamie struck him over the heart and Bradford’s face paled with the sometimes deadly blow. Jamie backheeled the man and sent him tumbling to the ground.

“No more, lad!” Fontaine called from the porch. “You’ll kill the man.”

Jamie turned, his blue eyes cold. “And that would be a loss to this community?”

“Nay, lad,” Smith called. “But the man is down now. He can’t get up.”

Jamie looked at the battered and bloody man lying in the dust of the street. Bradford was near unconsciousness. Jamie turned his back to him and walked to the porch and then into the store.

Smith turned to Bradford’s shocked friends. “Get him out of the street and see to him. And don’t return here until you can conduct yourselves with some degree of civility.” He followed Jamie into the store and set about filling the young man’s shopping list.

“The lad is a cool one,” Fontaine remarked, as he watched Bradford’s friends drag the man off to the shade of a tree.

“Aye,” a man agreed. “The kind we need in this country... when the time comes.”

“Curb your tongue,” Fontaine said, cutting his eyes all about him. “Words of Texas independence falling on the wrong ears means death in the night. I shall befriend this young man and sound him out.”

A few buildings away, the lone rider had slapped the dust from his clothing and was walking toward the huge general store. He carried two pistols behind his waistband. That in itself was not unusual, for most men carried at least one pistol and oftentimes several of them. It was the way this man carried them: the butt of each pistol facing forward and slanted toward the other, enabling the man to draw with either hand.

And the placement of the pistols did not escape the attention of Jamie as the man walked into the store. He had learned long ago to miss nothing. Jamie put some tobacco on the counter for Moses — the ex-slave made his own pipes — and watched as the pile of articles began to grow.

“You must really live a long way off, lad?” Smith said with a smile.