William Johnstone - Eyes of Eagles

Something snapped in the already crazed mind of Little Wolf. He threw down his rifle and shouted, “Then step out, White Hair!” he shouted. “Face me with knife in hand, if you have the courage.”

Jamie smiled and leaned his rifle against a wagon wheel. “Let me hear you give the orders for your followers not to interfere no matter how it goes,” he called.

Little Wolf gave the orders in a harsh tone, then called out of the darkness, “Now you do the same with your people, Man Who Is Not Afraid.”

“No interference,” Jamie said, loud enough for Little Wolf to hear. “They go free if by some miracle I should fall, Little Wolf. Let me hear your word of honor on that.”

“They will go free. They will not be harmed. I give you my word. But I will not need help from Man Above to kill you.”

“Confident bastard, isn’t he?” Swede muttered the question.

“He’s a fool,” Jamie said, then drew his big Bowie knife from its sheath and stepped out of the circled wagons.

From out of the cool night, Little Wolf walked toward him, knife in hand. “I have been dreaming of this moment for years,” Little Wolf said.

“In a couple of minutes, White Boy, you’ll be able to dream forever,” Jamie told him, sarcasm thick off his tongue. “You’ll have the sleep of the dead.”

Little Wolf screamed and leaped at him. Jamie sidestepped and Little Wolfs knife cut nothing but night air.

“Clumsy,” Jamie said. “You move like a fat cow.”

Little Wolf cursed him.

“Our father would be disgraced at your behavior, White Boy.”

Little Wolfs knife whistled close to Jamie’s belly. Jamie laughed at him and clubbed him on the side of the head with a big fist.

Little Wolf backed up, shaking his head to clear it of a sudden painful buzzing from the blow.

Jamie pressed him, moving his left hand from side to side to distract his foe. He lunged and the tip of his razor-sharp knife drew first blood as the point slashed across Little Wolfs belly. The wound was not serious, but it was painful, and sudden fear leaped into Little Wolfs eyes at the ease with which Jamie had cut him.

Little Wolf backed up, conscious of the warm flow of blood leaking down across his lower belly. He feinted but Jamie would not play that game. All his false move got him was a cut across his left arm, between shoulder and elbow. Little Wolf felt more fear clutch at him as he stared into the eyes of Jamie, who was confidently smiling at him in the light of the moon.

“Shoot him!” Little Wolf suddenly yelled to his warriors.

It was not unexpected and Jamie tensed, ready to leap at the sound of a rifle or pistol being cocked.

“No,” a Kiowa said. “This is a test of honor. We gave our word and we will not break it, Little Wolf.”

“I gave you all an order!” Little Wolf screamed. “Obey me.”

“You are a coward,” a renegade Comanche called. “We are through with you. Die alone, Little Wolf.”

A few seconds later, Jamie heard the rush and pound of hooves as Little Wolfs band left him.

“Leave,” Jamie told the man who was once his brother. “Go and take care of Deer Woman. Ride out.”

“I cannot,” Little Wolf said softly. “And you know I speak the truth.”

“Then step forward and taste my blade.”

Little Wolf cried out and jumped. Jamie stepped to one side and cut the Indian across the back, rendering his left arm useless as his big blade severed muscles. Blood gushed and Little Wolf almost went to his knees. Slowly, he turned to face Jamie.

There was pain mixed with resignation on Little Wolfs face as he said, “Did my father really say all that you said?”

“Yes.”

“I am adopted?”

“Yes.”

Little Wolf tried to jump at Jamie. He lost his balance and fell heavily to the ground. He cursed and pulled himself to his knees. “Kill me!” he cried.

“No,” Jamie said. “I will not.”

“You must!”

“I will not.”

With a wild scream of hate and fury, Little Wolf drove his knife into his own stomach, burying the blade to the hilt. When the first waves of intense pain had passed, and with blood leaking from his mouth, he said, “I have no right to ask this of you, Man Who Is Not Afraid. But will you bury me near the place where my father’s bones are scattered?”

“Yes, Little Wolf, I will do that.”

“Take my horse. I will not need him where I go. For my father is afoot in the darkness as well. He’s a good horse. I stole him from a stupid Pawnee.”

“I will make sure you have weapons to take with you to the beyond.”

“Thank you, Man Who Is Not Afraid.” Little Wolfs voice was growing weaker but other than that, he made no sounds of complaint, even though the pain must have been terrible. He remained on his knees, both hands clutching the handle of the bloody knife buried in his stomach.

Hannah came out from the wagons, carrying food wrapped in a cloth. “You will not go hungry as you journey into the darkness, Little Wolf.”

She placed the food beside him, away from the growing puddle of blood around his knees, and returned to the wagons.

“I must say this as my time slips away,” Little Wolf said. “You are the greatest warrior I have ever met, Man Who Is Not Afraid.”

Little Wolf fell over on his side, closed his eyes, and died.

* * *

At daylight, Jamie took the wrapped body of Little Wolf to the spot where he had killed Tall Bull and the others. Only Hannah accompanied him. He recognized the area by the human bones scattered about, including a rib cage. Jamie stood for a few minutes, looking at the old battleground, then he sighed and made ready for the simple service. He presented Little Wolfs body to the gods, with weapons and food. Hannah gave a Shawnee prayer for the dead and sang to the Gods. Then Jamie and Hannah returned to the wagons, walking through the brush and the sparse timber, holding hands.

“You’re awfully quiet, Jamie,” Kate remarked.

“Seems like to me you’d be happy that all this is over,” Sam said.

“I do not wish to ever return to this place,” Jamie said. “For the ghosts of Tall Bull and Deer Runner and Bad Leg and Little Wolf will forever wander here, unable to leave.”

“Do you really believe that, Jamie?” Swede asked.

“Yes,” Jamie said, and swung into the saddle.

Fifty-one

After all these months, no traces of blood remained on the stones in the plaza or on the long and shot-gutted walls of the Alamo. Jamie entered the place alone. Kate had started to follow him through the gate, but Hannah held her back.

“Not yet,” she said. “He’ll call us.”

Jamie walked the grounds and looked into each room. In his mind he could hear the voices of the dead. Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, William Travis, Kimball, Martin, Bonham, Dickerson, Pollard, McGregor, Holland, Cloud, Autry, Esparza, Fuqua, Jameson, Walker, Evans, Baugh, Malone, Moore, Sewell, Bailey... and the one hundred and sixty-one others, including some sixteen or so whose names are forever lost from the roll call of the gallant.

Jamie could not bring himself to look into Bowie’s room. He had seen the bloodstains still on the walls of the other rooms, and could not bring himself to see Bowie’s blood splattered. Juan Nunez had personally spoken with several Mexican soldiers who had fought at the Alamo, and deserted soon after, sick to their hearts at the savagery they had both witnessed and taken part in. They had told him that all the bodies of the defenders had been horribly mutilated, then burned. Both of them had sworn to Juan that they would never again take up arms against a fellow human being . . . unless of course, it was an Indian. They didn’t count.

No one ever really found out what happened to the ashes of the defenders of the Alamo.