William Johnstone - Eyes of Eagles

“Just the two of us now, Man Who Is Not Afraid,” Tall Bull’s voice reached him. “I felt sure Little Wolf would fail, but I was confident that Deer Runner would take you.”

“You were right about one and wrong about the other,” Jamie said.

“Something has changed in your voice. I think you are badly hurt.”

“That’s a hell of a lot better than you’re going to be, Tall Bull.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to be dead.”

Tall Bull chuckled. “I taught you well, my son.”

“That you did, father. And I thank you for it.”

Tall Bull’s laugh held no humor. “Perhaps I taught you too well.”

“We’ll soon know, won’t we?”

“That is true.”

Jamie could tell with each reply that Tall Bull was slowly working his way closer. He was in the cluster of trees now. Jamie did not know if he could stand up; did not know if his wounded leg would support him. But he did know he was now no match for Tall Bull if it came to hand to hand with knives. He had to shoot him; had to get lead into the man. Tall Bull was an enormously powerful man, perhaps not as powerful as he’d been when Jamie was a child in the Shawnee town, but Jamie knew if Tall Bull ever got his hands on him, the fight was over — and Jamie would be the loser.

Tall Bull made only one mistake in his deadly advance: he waited too long to make his move. The skies were growing lighter by the minute and Jamie’s eyes were sharp. He saw a lower branch move and a brown hand reach up to still it. Jamie put a heavy caliber ball right through that hand. Tall Bull made no sound, even though Jamie knew the pain must have been awful, for he’d seen the sudden splash of bright red color the dead leaves.

Jamie laid that pistol aside and picked up his second pistol, muffling the cocking with his left hand. Waves of agony lanced through him when he moved his left arm and bright lights of pain erupted behind his eyes.

Tall Bull burst out of the brush running hard. There was a knife in his left hand, his ruined right hand dangling and dripping blood, and a wild cry on his lips. His face was pure savage and his eyes were alive with victory.

Jamie lifted his pistol and shot Tall Bull in the chest, watching as if events had suddenly slowed down to only a fraction of life’s speed. Tall Bull stopped and looked down at the hole in his chest, just below the V of his rib cage. Blood was pouring out.

“Iiiyyee!” he cried. “I died at the hands of a true warrior!” He stumbled forward and fell, the knife driving deep into Jamie’s side.

For just a few seconds, the eyes of Jamie and Tall Bull met. Tall Bull gasped, “My son! My son! Only Man Above knows how much I loved you.”

“You sure picked a funny way to show it,” Jamie said, just as darkness began to take him.

“Deer Woman was right,” Tall Bull whispered, lowering his head to Jamie’s chest. “She said I would not return.”

“So we both lost the war,” Jamie’s voice was very weak.

“Both sides always do,” the Shawnee chief said, as his eyes and the eyes of Jamie Ian MacCallister closed and they were spun whirling into a world of shadows.

Forty-six

Little Wolf crawled to his knees and staggered toward the river to splash water on his wounds and try to bandage them. Then he would return and take the scalp of Jamie MacCallister. He made the river only to pass out again. He lay with his legs in the cold water and his upper torso on the bank.

Jamie opened his eyes to a world of pain. It was full daylight and the sun was bright. About eight o’clock, he guessed. He did not try to pry the dead fingers of Tall Bull from the hilt of the knife. He doubted he had the strength left in him to do that and then pull the blade from his side. He gritted his teeth, summoned all his strength and willpower, put one hand around Tall Bull’s wrist and the other around the dead Indian’s closed hand, and jerked.

He screamed and passed out from the pain.

By the river, Little Wolf stirred at the sound, but could not drag himself to consciousness.

Jamie pulled himself back to white-hot awareness and pushed Tall Bull from him. He did not yet have the strength to stand, so after gathering his pistols and rifle, he began the painful crawl back to his camp. Twice he had to stop and rest. At his camp, he built up the fire and dressed his wounds as best he could with what he had and could find, the latter provided by nature.

He forced himself to eat and drink some coffee and then, working in stages, for he was very weak, he packed up and saddled up. His horse did not like the smell of blood, but Jamie quieted the animal and got the saddle on him. Next came the task of getting himself into the saddle. After three tries, all of them hideously painful, he made it.

He pointed the nose of the horse north, toward the road. He was very tired, and wanted very much to just lie down and rest. But he knew if he allowed that, he would not get up. He would just die.

How he stayed in the saddle for as long as he did was something short of a miracle. He was only half conscious much of the time. When he reached the road, he turned east and ran right into a Mexican patrol. Through the painful haze behind his eyes, he saw them and lifted his rifle. It seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. The Mexican patrol literally blew him out of the saddle. Jamie was unconscious before he hit the ground. He was not aware of the gentle rain that started falling from the clouds. It was a warm rain, and it signaled the beginning of spring.

Jamie lay sprawled on his face and belly in a ditch by the side of the road. His horse had raced off as soon as Jamie was shot out of the saddle. Two of the Mexican cavalrymen tried to catch the animal, but the horse was too fast for them and they gave up.

Jamie was covered with blood from his newly received head wound to his knees, and the officer took one careless glance at him and said, “Dead.”

Jamie had been carrying the pouch on the outside of his coat to prevent any blood from leaking through and the Mexican officer ripped it from him and pawed through the letters. He could read and speak English and he saw quickly that there were no military dispatches among the bits of torn paper. He shook his head and cursed and threw the papers on the dampening ground and swung back into the saddle.

He looked over at Jamie’s horse, about a half mile away, grazing. “Too bad,” he said. “That was a fine animal. I would have liked to have caught him.”

The patrol galloped off, toward San Antonio, as the rain began turning the ink on the papers once more into liquid.

* * *

Kate straightened up from her work and looked westward. An almost physical stab of fear had suddenly filled her. She clutched at her breast and gasped. What was wrong with her? She’d never before experienced anything like this.

Jamie Ian and Ellen Kathleen, now in their ninth year, and both very bright and quick, looked at their mother and then at each other. Ellen shook her head at her brother.

Andy blurted, “Are you all right, Mommy?”

Kate turned from the stove and forced a smile. “Yes. I’m fine. Get me some potatoes, will you, Andy?” She looked out the kitchen window. Sarah and Hannah were walking up the path, coming over for afternoon coffee and conversation. The men were in the fields.

Kate took a deep breath and calmed herself. She just couldn’t understand that sudden moment of anxiety. It was gone now. She sighed and took the potatoes Andy handed her and thanked him. She had to smile as she looked at the children. Everyone of them blond and blue-eyed. The boys all looked like Jamie and the girls all looked like Kate.

Kate stepped to the door to greet her friends. What’s happening, Jamie? she thought. What is going on where you are? Are you safe? Well? This waiting is becoming harder and harder to bear. Come back to me, Jamie. Come back to me.