William Johnstone - Eyes of Eagles

The kids were spread out among the wagons, and Jamie rode slowly down one side and up the other side, counting heads; blond heads, nappy heads, shiny-black-haired kids with flashing button eyes.

What a mixture, Jamie thought. But we made it all work with no friction. So it can be done, if people will only try. And now we’re going to do it again.

Jamie rode to the head of the column and lifted his arm. “Let’s go see the mountains, people!” he called.

The wagons rolled through San Augustine and the people there came out to see them off, standing and waving and calling their hail and farewells for the last time. The owner of the general store handed Jamie a package and from the smell, he knew what it was: hard candy for the kids.

It would be the last store candy the kids would see for months, perhaps years. Quicker than any of them would have liked, the tiny village was behind them and silence stretched out before them. Just outside of San Augustine, Jamie turned the wagons slightly south. They were going far out of their way to visit San Antonio, but all wanted to see the Alamo.

They would not see another town or village or any type of settlement until they crossed the Trinity and a few miles southwest of there was a trading post. But that was miles ahead and days away.

The area was not void of people, for thousands of Americans had moved into Texas just prior to the war for Texas independence, most of them settling in the eastern part of the state. Lots of people, but few towns.

Jamie was once more in the peak of health, and roamed away from the wagons, always choosing the best crossing of sloughs and creeks. The “road” they followed was actually an old Indian trail, not much more than two wagon wheel ruts in the ground.

There were no incidents with Indians, for the settlers in East Texas had resolved that problem. In only a few short years, there would be no Indians left in East Texas except for a few peaceful Alabama and Coushatta. Jamie felt certain they would have trouble with the Kiowa and Comanche once they left San Antonio, but he was not expecting any trouble until then.

At the trading post, they bought a few supplies, exchanged pleasantries with the people there, and moved on. Jamie set a leisurely pace, for all knew they were seeing this country for the last time. Except for Jamie, they were also seeing it for the first time.

At a trading post on the Colorado, later to be known as La Grange, Jamie halted the wagons and they spent a couple of nights. Again they resupplied, talked with the people there, and rested. Most of the citizens had heard of Jamie MacCallister and many questioned him about the Alamo. He answered their questions patiently and truthfully. But it was painful for him, for the memories of Jim Bowie, Bill Travis, Davy Crockett, and the others were fresh in his mind, and it still rankled him that the editor of the paper would not print Bowie’s last statement.

Several weeks after leaving the Big Thicket country, Jamie led the wagons onto the road that would take them to San Antonio and Jamie instantly felt suspicions seize him. He halted the wagons and sat his saddle for several moments, looking at the trail stretching out before him.

While the others chatted and rested by the road, Hannah came to him and he swung down from the saddle to stand beside her.

“What’s wrong, Jamie?”

“I don’t know,” he spoke the words softly. “But I sense trouble ahead.”

“You’re certain that Tall Bull was dead?” she questioned in a whisper.

“Yes. But I don’t know about Little Wolf. I know that I shot him. But whether it was a killing shot... I don’t know.”

“Is there anything between here and San Antonio?”

“Walnut Springs. Just a trading post and a few cabins.”

“It would be like Little Wolf to ambush us at the very spot where his father died.”

“That’s my thinking, Hannah.”

Together, they walked back to the wagons, Jamie leading his horse. “I hope I’m wrong,” Jamie told them. “But I think we’re going to have some trouble when we near the Guadalupe River. Two days from now.”

“Little Wolf?” Kate asked.

“Yes. It sounds silly, I know, but I have this... feeling. So from now on, keep the kids in the wagons and no walking alongside. Load up the extra weapons and keep them handy.” He looked at Sam and Swede. “When, or if, the attack comes, it will come silently and swiftly. There will be no warning. If Little Wolf survived that fight, he’s banded with other Indians. Maybe renegades. If that’s the case, they’ll be more vicious and cruel than anything any of you have ever seen. They’ll be looking not just to kill me, but to take prisoners alive for torture. I don’t have to tell you women what lies in store for you if you’re taken. Hannah has made that perfectly clear to all of you. Little Wolf, if he’s alive, is quite mad. That makes him doubly dangerous. Let’s go. Close the wagons up and keep them tight. Lookouts keep a sharp eye out for anything unusual. Call out if you see anything that looks suspicious.”

But Jamie knew that the odds of any of them spotting anything were slight. He knew that when the attack came, if it did, it would come silently and deadly and with no warning. And he felt the attack would come at or near the river. Hannah knew Little Wolfs mind as well as Jamie did.

Jamie had spoken with the men who had found the battle site, months back. The bodies had not been buried, but one scout said the body of what appeared to be an older man had been partially covered. Jamie would bet that was Tall Bull; Little Wolf had been wounded so badly he could not properly bury his father. That his father’s bones were scattered, left for the animals, and not wrapped and presented in the traditional manner to the Gods, would only serve to heighten Little Wolfs madness and craving for revenge.

The closer they came to the river, the more convinced Jamie became that Little Wolf was alive and waiting for him.

He stopped often to scan the terrain ahead of him. To sit his saddle and sniff the air. For just as the white man smells differently to an Indian, an Indian smells different to a white man. If one knows what to sniff out. And Jamie certainly knew.

A few travelers had passed them, heading east. Sam was curious as to why Jamie had not questioned them.

“Because they wouldn’t know anything, Sam. Little Wolf will let a hundred people pass his hiding place. He wants me. He wouldn’t expose himself for anyone else. Not until I am dead.”

“His hate must be wild,” Swede commented, one second before a rifle cracked and he was knocked from the saddle.

Fifty

Jamie left the saddle and was in the trees along the river in two blinks of an eye. He did not have to look back to see what those in the wagons were doing. They had rehearsed it so many times it would be second nature. When he did look around him from a concealed spot, the wagons were circled tightly, the stock inside the circle, and the defenders forted up. Out of the corner of his eye, Jamie had seen Swede jump to his feet and run for the wagons, his left arm bleeding. So the wound was not a serious one.

Jamie took stock of their situation and found it pretty good. Little Wolf, if this was Little Wolf and Jamie felt certain it was, had chosen his ambush point well, and the time of day. It was about an hour before dusk, a time when any travelers would be holed up for the evening.

The odds of anyone coming along to aid them were slim to none.

Jamie had been riding with his bow and quiver of arrows on his back. He had his rifle and two pistols and his knife. He strung the bow and notched an arrow. Then he waited motionlessly.

“You die this day, Man Who Is Not Afraid!” Little Wolf called out.