William Johnstone - Eyes of Eagles

He looked toward Bowie’s quarters and sighed. Jim was a good man, a true man, and he wished they could get along. Travis admitted, to himself, that it was as much his own fault as it was Bowie’s. They were as different as night was from day.

He watched as Jamie disappeared into the gloom near the west wall. The young man was going out to kill. Travis wished him luck. MacCallister was a mystery. Raised by Indians, Travis recalled someone telling him. Somewhat of a savage, he felt. But nonetheless, a very capable and likeable young man.

Even though William Travis was only a few years older than Jamie MacCallister, on this early evening, he felt the weight of command heavy on his shoulders.

“Colonel,” a man called. “Come get some beef and beans and coffee, sir. It’s gonna be a cold night.”

It will heat up come the dawning, Travis thought, as he walked toward the cook fire and took the offered plate of food in one hand and the cup of coffee in his other hand. “Thank you,” he said politely.

* * *

“Please excuse me,” Jamie muttered, lowering the body of the sentry to the nearly frozen ground. The man had died without a sound as the big blade of Jamie’s Bowie knife nearly took his head off.

“Carlos?” a voice called out. “Where are you?”

“ Por acá, ” Jamie softly called.

“Ah!” The man started walking toward Jamie and Jamie put an arrow directly into the soldier’s chest. He dropped with a thud against the nearly frozen earth.

“ Silencio! ” a hard voice called, adding, “ Idiota! ”

Jamie did the silencing with an arrow in the middle of the man’s back. The Mexican batteries began opening up, from about five hundreds yards away from the Alamo. Jamie’s knife flashed in the night and he silently slipped away, his bloody souvenirs dangling from his belt. He slipped into the town, knowing he was taking a terrible chance, but feeling the Mexican soldiers ought to know a taste of fear. He was going to give them a taste of it, that night.

That Colonel Travis would not approve of this did not bother Jamie a twit. Bowie would be amused by it.

A drunken sergeant lurched out of a cantina that the soldiers had forced open, mouthing terrible things about norteamericanos in general and Texans in particular. Jamie left him sitting on the dirt in the alley, his back to the outside wall of the cantina, his chin on his chest, and his head glistening dark and wetly in the night.

Jamie flattened out against the wall of a building as a dozen or more cavalrymen walked their horses up the street, the hooves making a frightful echoing racket on the stones. Jamie used that noise to cover any slight sound he might make and slipped away. He made his way over to where a battery of artillerymen were swabbing out and reloading cannon. Then, Jamie supposed, they decided to take a break, for coffee or food or whatever, for they all walked away and vanished into the night. Jamie slipped over to the row of cannon and finding a bucket, began working quickly, scooping up mud and pouring it into the barrels of two of the eight-pounder cannon. Then he packed it in tight and rolled over into a ditch just as the men returned to their stations.

It was going to get real interesting when the order came for those men to fire their cannons.

Jamie collected three more scalps that night before he decided not to push his luck any further. He headed back for the Alamo, finding it almost ridiculously easy to wend his way unseen through the Mexican lines.

“Thanks, Tall Bull,” he said under his breath, for the brutal training the Shawnee had given him on how to survive.

Reaching the rear of the Alamo, on the east side, near the cattle and horse pen, he called, “MacCallister. Coming over.”

“Come on, Jamie,” the sentry said. “How was it over yonder?”

“Busy,” Jamie said with a smile, towering over the man.

“What that a-hangin’ from your belt, son?”

“Scalps,” Jamie told him, and walked on.

The man shuddered and muttered, “Travis ain’t gonna like that a-tall.”

Jamie told Crockett and Bowie what he’d done with the cannon and both men guffawed and slapped their knees in high humor. “Land sakes, boy,” Crockett said. “You done fixed it so’s we’uns can have quite a show this night.”

Jamie wondered about Crockett’s speech; wondered just how much of it was affectation and how much was real? No matter, though. Davy was a fearless fighting man and a dead shot.

“My God, boy!” Bowie said, stepping back. “What have you got hanging from your belt?”

“Half a dozen scalps. I thought I’d give them to Travis as souvenirs.” Actually, Jamie had no intention of doing that.

Bowie grinned. “No, lad. Let me have the honors.” Before Jamie could stop him, he jerked the bloody scalps from Jamie’s belt.

“What’s going on up there?” Travis suddenly appeared in the night and called from the plaza. “Oh. It’s you, MacCallister. What did you accomplish among the enemy this evening?”

“Killed half a dozen and fixed two of their cannon so when they fire, it’ll surely backfire on them.”

Travis climbed up onto the parapet and faced Jamie. “Report,” he said.

Jamie told all that he’d seen and done — almost.

“Yeah, you want these, Bill?” Bowie asked innocently, then held out the bloody scalps.

Travis recoiled as if being handed a writhing poisonous snake. “What in God’s name are those?” he demanded.

Crockett and his men — all skilled Indian fighters who had certainly taken more than their share of scalps over the years — could barely contain themselves. One swallowed his chewing tobacco trying to stifle his laughter.

“Scalps, Colonel,” Bowie replied calmly. “Jamie took them. He thought you might want to keep them as souvenirs.”

Travis drew himself up to his full height, which was eye to eye with Bowie, and smiled. “Why, yes,” he said. “I certainly would. Thank you, Scout MacCallister. I am sure I shall treasure them always.” He took the scalps and tucked them behind his own belt.

Crockett leaned close and whispered hoarsely, “He beat you on that one, Jimmy my boy.” Then he burst out laughing.

Soon all the men along the parapet were howling at Travis having put one over on Bowie. But Jim was good humored and he soon joined in the merriment.

When the laughter had died down, Bowie stuck out his hand toward Travis. “Colonel, would you be so kind as to join me in my quarters and we’ll have coffee and discuss, together and mutually, the defending of this bastion of liberty?”

Travis smiled and shook the hand of the older man. “It would be my pleasure, Colonel Bowie. My great pleasure indeed.” He chuckled, a rare thing for Travis. “Perhaps then, Jim, you can tell me what you really told that emissary from General Santa Anna this afternoon.”

“Oh, that’s easy, William. I just told him to tell Santa Anna to kiss my ass!”

Travis was startled silent for a moment. He blinked, then slowly started chuckling. Soon he was roaring with laughter and wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. Once again, the men along the parapet were howling with laughter.

From the Mexican battery of artillery, there suddenly came a mighty roar and a huge shower of flame and shredded metal and hardened mud. The flames touched off two more cannon and they blew apart. The blast from the first explosions knocked the two other cannons out of alignment and the cannonballs fell far short of their target and the scene was one of confusion and screaming and mortally wounded men.

Travis patted Jamie on the shoulder. “Good work, Scout MacCallister. Very good work. Colonel Bowie, shall we retire to your quarters to map out the battle plans?”