William Johnstone - Eyes of Eagles

Tall Bull chuckled. “Very, very good, Man Who Is Not Afraid. You have sharpened your tongue in manhood. This will be a great game we play this night.”

“How is Deer Woman?” Jamie called, then again shifted position, putting himself very close to the tiny offshoot. He had loaded one pistol, and was now quickly loading the second.

“She is well. Older, as we all are,” Tall Bull replied. “I forbid her to ever speak your name, but I can tell that she misses you.”

“I did no harm to you or to anyone in your town,” Jamie called. “I just wanted to return to my own people, as did Hannah. You cannot fault me for that.”

“Oh, I don’t fault you, White Hair. But you disgraced me in the eyes of my followers. I will be redeemed when I show them your scalp.”

“That’ll never happen, Tall Bull. You’ve already lost two this evening, with a third one hurt. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

There was a long silence. That was followed by a sigh. “It tells me that you are a mighty warrior, Man Who Is Not Afraid. But we are many.”

“I’ve fought three and four times your number, Tall Bull. I’m here and they’re dead.” He slipped down the bank and silently crept along in the sand, angling to get behind Tall Bull and however many men he had with him.

“I do not doubt your words,” Tall Bull replied.

Jamie paused, seeing a Shawnee standing beside a tree. That was a favorite Shawnee trick: making oneself part of the earth, and it worked, most of the time. The man was standing with his right side to Jamie. Jamie squatted down and felt around carefully in the shallow water until he found a rock about the size of a small apple. He dried his hands on his buckskins and then carefully gripped the rock. He took aim, judging the distance, and let the rock fly.

Jamie missed the man’s head, the rock striking the Shawnee on the side of the neck, just below the jaw. But it had been thrown with considerable force and the Indian went down, choking and gasping, both hands to his surely badly injured throat. The Shawnee kicked and moaned for a half a minute or so, and then lay still.

Four down, Jamie thought, as he silently worked his way around the twisting little offshoot.

He almost walked right into two of Tall Bull’s band. They were wading in the stream, working toward the river. Jamie heard the rustle of water and stopped, pressing himself against the cold bank, both hands filled with pistols. He hated to give away his position, but felt he had no choice in the matter.

From a distance of about five feet, Jamie fired both pistols. At almost point-blank range, the balls tore great holes in the chests of the men and flung them into the water. Jamie immediately changed positions, coming out on the other side of the offshoot and taking cover in some low brush.

Jamie remembered well how Tall Bull operated and knew that he seldom took more than ten or twelve warriors with him on a raid, unless it was to be an all-out battle with another tribe. Jamie felt he had cut Tall Bull’s band down by at least half this night. Tall Bull would not only be angry, but would be twice as dangerous and cunning.

“Running Bear is dead,” Jamie heard Little Wolfs call. “White Hair clubbed him on the neck.”

The thrown rock, Jamie thought. Must have crushed his throat so he couldn’t breathe.

“Circle,” Tall Bull ordered.

Circle where? Jamie thought. That was a ruse on the part of Tall Bull. Tall Bull really had no idea where Jamie was. So that order was merely an attempt to get Jamie to move, thereby possibly exposing his position, something Jamie had no intention of doing.

The wind died down to nothing and the night was very still. Jamie could not take a chance on reloading his pistols, for the slightest noise would bring death. He waited.

After a moment, he heard a gasp from the banks of the offshoot and knew that someone had found the two warriors Jamie had shot. There was a rustle of moccasins against sand and earth, and then silence. Whoever had found the bodies was reporting back to Tall Bull.

Jamie had killed five and put another one out of action. That left three, possibly five warriors to face. But they would be the most dangerous, the most experienced, and in the case of Little Wolf and Bad Leg, the ones filled with the most hatred for him. Tall Bull was by far the most skilled manhunter.

Jamie was not overconfident. He knew this night was fraught with danger. His life was much more threatened here than at any time in the past few weeks. The odds of a cannonball dropping on his head had been slight. As long as he stayed out of sight, behind the walls of the Alamo, no Mexican sharpshooter could hit him. But here, on this cold night, danger could be and probably was, all around him. The Shawnee would be moving in for the silent kill, coming slowly.

The wind picked up and Jamie used its soft sound to quickly reload his pistols. A dry twig snapped to his left. Moving only his eyes, Jamie could just make out the shape of a man, standing rock still after his foot had snapped the twig. He was about twenty-five feet away from the brush Jamie was hiding in. The Shawnee would be silently cursing himself for that bad move. The warrior moved and when he did it was sudden. One second he was there, the next instant he was gone.

Returning his eyes to the front, Jamie watched as a dark shape came over the bank of the offshoot and was gone. Tall Bull, and Jamie was certain it had been Tall Bull, had found his moccasins tracks in the soft earth and sand and knew approximately where he was.

When the second dark shape materialized for only a moment, his head and upper torso exposed, Jamie fired one pistol and instantly came out of the brush, running hard for the bank. But he had missed his target. The shot had caused the Shawnee to belly down, however, and Jamie leaped over him and into the water. He jumped for the far bank, ran a few yards, and then was out of the watercourse and onto dry land. He ran for a clump of trees and bellied down, catching his breath while his eyes searched the darkness and his ears were attuned for any sound.

Escape was out of the question. The dispatch pouch was under his saddle and Tall Bull would have left one warrior at the camp site. This was a fight to the finish, and Jamie felt that Tall Bull realized it, too.

He shoved his pistols behind his belt and quickly checked his rifle. A shadow movement across the offshoot caught his attention and Jamie lifted the rifle to his shoulder. The shot would give away his position, but Jamie knew he had to cut down the odds. When the shadow became a man, Jamie fired. A choking scream told him his ball had flown true. He reloaded and waited.

If his attackers had been any other but Tall Bull, they would have more than likely given up this fight, for the Indian saw no percentage in taking this many losses. There was always another day. But this was Tall Bull; this was personal. This was a fight to the finish.

Jamie was in a good position; probably the best defensive position he could have chosen. The river twisted here, the water to his left and right and back. Tall Bull and however many he had left, must now attack from the front. Jamie made himself as comfortable as possible and waited.

Jamie was alert, whatever sleep he had gotten refreshing him. He had his rifle and two pistols, and ample shot and powder. But his bow and quiver of arrows was back in camp. Jamie now felt there had been twelve in the attacking band. Tall Bull, Little Wolf, Bad Leg, and nine others. Six were dead, one wounded. He faced five.

“We can wait,” came the strong voice of Tall Bull. “Forever if it comes to that.”

Jamie made no reply and knew the Indian expected none. Tall Bull and the one other older warrior would be the hardest to kill. They would have the patience that Little Wolf and Bad Leg did not possess. Bad Leg was basically a coward. But that was not necessarily a good thing for Jamie, for cowards, when cornered, can be formidable and dangerous foes.