Dreams of Eagles (25 page)

By ten o'clock that evening, the cries of the wounded had all faded.

“They're either dead or unconscious,” Audie remarked.

“Good riddance,” Sparks said.

At first light, Jamie and MacDuff were prowling among the dead, gathering up weapons and balls and powder. They found several revolvers, but they were of the type that used a lever under the barrel to turn the cylinder; pull down the lever, the cylinder turned, clamp the level snug against the bottom of the barrel, you were ready to fire . . . hopefully. Several had pepperboxes in their pockets; many men called them “suicide pistols” because they sometimes jammed up and blew your hand off or—several fingers, if you were lucky.

Jamie smashed the pepperboxes, rendering them useless, and then threw them away; he had no use for them but didn't want any Indians to find them.

The dead men were dragged off and buried in a common grave, not out of choice but necessity, for none carried any type of identification. The outlaws had some money, and Jamie gave that to the drivers to divide among themselves. Some took the money, others refused it.

The wagons were moving west by mid-morning.

Jamie spoke briefly with Lobo and the big man nodded his head in agreement. A few minutes later, after whispering to Kate, Jamie rode off with Sparks, Preacher and a few days' supplies, trailing Winslow's outlaw pack.

The trail west was fraught with enough dangers; the three of them were going to remove one of the perils.

“When we come up on this pack of hydrophobee skunks,” Preacher said. “How do we play it?”

“We ride in and kill the bastards,” Sparks said.

“That sounds simple enough,” Preacher said with a smile. “Hell, there ain't but about twenty of 'em.”

It was Preacher who pointed out the circling carrion birds just ahead. “One more of them dead,” he opined.

Several of the birds had already settled around the dead man and were feeding, tearing at the dead flesh, pecking out his eyes, and going deep into the stomach, making it impossible for the men to see what had killed him. But all could make a pretty good guess.

Buzzards were landing in force now, and the men did not feel like taking the time to drive them away, even if they could—which sometimes proved impossible if the buzzards were hungry enough. They had nothing with which to dig a grave, so they left the outlaw where he lay.

“Even them ugly bastards got to eat,” Preacher summed it all up.

A mile further on, they found another man sitting alongside the trail, his back to a rock. He was alive but just barely. He had taken a load of buckshot from a shotgun right in the stomach. He looked up at the men, the hate in his eyes overriding the terrible pain.

“If I had the strength,” he gasped, “I'd take my gun and kill you all right now.”

“How does a fellow get to be so snake-poison full of hate?” Sparks asked the man.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes glazed over and his mouth filled with blood, dribbling down his chin. His head slumped to one side and he died along the trail. About a hundred yards away, the carrion birds waited with all the patience of a million years bred in them.

Jamie, Sparks, and Preacher rode on.

The carrion birds moved in to feast.

A few minutes later, they could smell the dust kicked up by Winslow's gang.

“Won't be long now,” Sparks said.

“Our horses are a lot fresher,” Jamie said. “Let's get ahead of them.”

The men spurred their horses and began a short loop. They trotted their animals for a time, then walked for a time. An hour later, the Winslow gang was about two miles behind them and coming on at a slow but steady pace.

“Good place right up yonder,” Preacher said. “The horses can graze behind them rocks and we can get siteated amongst 'em.”

Jamie cut his eyes at Preacher and hid his smile. He knew that the mountain man was capable of speaking perfect English when he wanted to.

The men did not even consider that the hunt might go on past these upthrustings of rock in the earth. They knew it wouldn't. It was going to end right here. They stripped saddles from the horses and let them roll but not drink; they were too hot for that. They put the picket pins down on about a quarter acre of grass and climbed into the rocks just as Winslow, with his stupid-looking tall stovepipe hat held on by a strap under his chin, came riding up.

The three men silently stood up in the rocks, their hands filled with Colt .44s and without a word just hauled the hammers back and let the lead fly.

Horses were rearing up and screaming in fright and men were cursing and shouting while their comrades were being knocked out of the saddle to fall onto the ground and be trampled under the hooves of their horses.

The attackers each carried four Colts, all of them loaded up full. When the hammers finally fell on the last loaded cylinder, the scene on the ground below the rocks was carnage.

“Didn't kill nary horse,” Preacher said with some satisfaction, for like most good western men, he liked and respected horses.

The men loaded up full before venturing down out of the rocks. Winslow had taken two .44 slugs in the gut and had lost his pistols. He had managed to pull himself into the rocks and was sitting up when Jamie found him. He was still wearing his stovepipe hat.

“You should have gone on back east, Winslow,” Jamie told him. “You might have lived a little longer.”

Winslow cussed him until he was out of breath.

“Is that all you got to say?” Jamie asked the man just as Sparks and Preacher walked up.

“I reckon it is, Jamie,” Sparks said. “He's dead.”

* * *

It was mid-morning of the next day before the men caught up with the wagons.

“Everything go all right, Pa?” Rosanna asked.

“It did for us,” Jamie replied.

His daughter had to ask no more questions. She knew they would never again be bothered by Winslow and his gang.

The wagon train now began the long dry pull to the Sierra Nevada mountains. Some wagon masters led their wagons on the Walker route, but Kit Carson had told Jamie of a better way, crossing near Lake Tahoe, and that was the way Jamie led this now-seasoned group of travelers.

Once they crossed the mountains, the way became infinitely easier and the mood of the travelers lighter. MacDuff rode on ahead to spread the word that entertainers were coming.

The entertainers weren't the only ones coming to California. Thousands were on their way to seek their fortunes. In January of 1848, gold was accidentally discovered at Sutter's Creek by James Marshall, a man who was building a mill for John Sutter. Ironically, although the gold was discovered on his land, John Sutter would see little of it. A few days after the gold was discovered, Mexico ceded California to the United States and Sutter's title to the land was contested. He was unable, legally, to drive off the hundreds of prospectors who suddenly appeared on his land, digging and panning for the precious yellow metal. Within a few years he was bankrupt, and he went back east to petition the U.S. government for the rights to his land. He died broke in 1880.

Gold fever gripped the United States and thousands started on their way to California; many turned back, but many more continued on. One year after gold was discovered, more than one hundred thousand people had moved from the east into California, making it the fastest growing area in North America.

San Francisco became a boom town—It was often referred to as the “Boomtown on the Bay.” From mid-1848 until well into the 1850s, San Francisco grew faster than any other American city. Few accurate records were kept, but it was estimated that starting in mid-1848, thirty to forty new houses a day were built along the bay. By the time Jamie and Kate and the troupe arrived, there were more than five hundred bars and nearly twice that many gambling dens. Hotels were grand for the time and restaurants in the growing city featured more on the menu than the fancy eating places of New York City. There were also three to five murders a day and whores walked the streets all hours of the day and night. It was reported that one whore retired after only a year working the streets—she had made over seventy-five thousand dollars in one year from the gold-laden and sex-starved miners and sailors. Fresh eggs were selling for twelve dollars a dozen. Ships crowded the harbor and many a ship's master quickly learned he could make more money by grounding his ship and leasing it out as a store or hotel than he could by sailing the seas.

It was the wildest town in North America, where nearly anything went for anybody who had the stomach to do it, and practically everybody did.

MacDuff settled the problem of no available hotel rooms in the city by stating simply, “No rooms, no shows.”

The residents on one entire floor were kicked out, and the rooms were ready for Jamie, Kate and company when they arrived; placards were quickly printed up and a hall rented. In one day, every seat in the hall was sold out for one entire month. One performance a day Monday through Friday, two shows on Saturday.

* * *

The gold rush was not the only thing of importance that was taking place that year. The Mexican-American war ended and New Mexico, California, and the Rio Grande border of Texas became part of the United States. Wisconsin joined the Union. The territory of Oregon was formally organized. Zachary Taylor was elected president.

But gold was the dream that gripped the nation, instant wealth sometimes discovered and lost all in the same day.

* * *

Gold had no allure for Jamie, for he had already found and cached enough gold to keep his family comfortable for a hundred years. And while the city was filled with some of the roughest men to ever congregate in one spot, most gave Jamie Ian MacCallister a wide berth.

Jamie didn't know that lawyer Laurin was in San Francisco, as was Maurice Evans, both of them there under assumed names, both having been run out of New York City and St. Louis.

“MacCallister,” Evans whispered, laying aside the newspaper as the old hate once more filled him. Thoughts of revenge rushed into his brain. “And many of his family.” Evans immediately summoned lawyer Laurin and showed him the newspaper.

“I know,” Laurin said, taking a seat. He held up a finger. “But a word of caution. We could probably get away with the death of Jamie MacCallister, but to do harm to some of the most popular entertainers in all of America would bring a very swift and thorough investigation. It isn't worth it.”

“There must be a way,” Evans whispered. Every misfortune that had befallen him since the death of his beloved son, Blake—one of the most worthless bastards to ever walk the face of the earth—Maurice Evans blamed on Jamie MacCallister. He was consumed with hate.

“I just might know a way,” Laurin said. “I just might.”

“Then get busy on it.”

“Maurice, we have to be very, very careful. One more slip-up and we're finished. All avenues will be closed to us.”

The look the lawyer received was of unbridled hate. “You think I give a damn about doing business when my son's unavenged body is rotting in some unmarked grave, buried without benefit of the words of God? I want the whole damn MacCallister family dead. Do you hear me?
Dead!
”

* * *

Cort had been walking into walls ever since Anne announced her pregnancy. He insisted that she stop all her exercising and immediately take to her bed. Anne complied, since no matter what she did, she could not abort the damn baby. But her doctor nearly did it for her when he said he was sure she was carrying twins.

Anne fell back against the pillows in genuine shock. Twins!

After the doctor left, Anne cut her eyes to her personal maid, Selma. The black woman was arranging a vase of flowers, a smile on her lips.

“I fail to see anything amusing about this, Selma. Get out!”

Selma turned around slowly, then walked to Anne's enormous four poster bed. She stood looking down at her. “You poor stupid bitch!” she said, and Anne's eyes widened in shock. “You really didn't think you could fool your own kind, did you?”

“I ... don't know what you mean,” Anne stammered.

“I knowed you was colored tryin' to pass the second you walked in the house,
Mistress.”
She slurred the title. “But that's all right. Cain't blame no one for tryin' to break the chains of slavery. Now, you listen to me. My mammy was the plantation midwife and when she died I took her place. When the time comes, we don't call no doctor. Cain't take that chance. One or both of these babies could be a nappy-headed nigger. You want Master Cort or Doctor Monroe to see that?”

Anne could but shake her head.

“Now you beginnin' to be smart. Birthin' babies ain't no big thing. You be fine. You just put that pretty schemin' head of yours to thinkin' 'bout how we gonna get Master Cort away from here when the time comes.”

“Selma,” Anne spoke, strangely relieved at having someone other than her brother to confide in. “What happens if the babies are black?”

“One of 'em stands a good chance of that, Missy. If that be the case, we give it away right quick. Your time is near and I know a woman done lost her baby. She'll take it. She won't know where it come from. Nobody will 'ceptin' you and me. Relax now. I 'spect you be birthin' 'fore the week is out. Hopefully durin' the night. Better that way. We got to git the master outta here, good and gone a distance. Think on it.”

* * *

In San Francisco, lawyer Laurin had recruited a half dozen thugs to take care of Jamie. Once Jamie was out of the picture, Kate could be handled easily. Laurin had plans of his own for the blue-eyed Kate. He had wanted the petite lady from the moment he first saw her riding in a carriage. Laurin was determined to have her.

People disappeared all the time in the rough and rowdy city. Knocked on the head and tossed in the bay for the money in their pockets, sold to ship captains, and worse. What worried him was Evans's insistence that the kids, Rosanna and Andrew, be dealt with, too. That was chancy. The musicians were known world-wide and a massive investigation would be immediately launched unless . . . He smiled. Of course. It occurred all the time in the city. Fire. The hall would catch on fire. He could arrange to have some bully-boys backstage to lay a cosh against the heads of the twins and they would perish in the fire. Yes. Perfect. It would work. He hurried over to Evans's office to tell him the good news.

* * *

Anne went into labor two days after she and Selma had talked. Fortunately, Doctor Monroe was clear over on the other side of the county. Unfortunately, Cort was home and pacing the floor.

“You just sit down here in the parlor and relax,” Selma told him. “I done this a hundred times. It might help if you had a good strong drink. Here, let me fix it for you. Now you drink this down and relax. Them babies gonna come with or without you worryin' and frettin' yourself into a sickness. I'll call you when it's over.”

“I don't know what we'd do without you, Selma,” Cort said, taking the bourbon and water.

I don't either, Selma thought. “Yes, sir. I'm goin' upstairs to tend to Miss Anne now. This might take some time, so you just try to relax. When you gets done with that drink, you fix you another. They's soup and hot bread in the kitchen case you gets hongry. I'll call you when it's time for you to come up.”