Nineteen

Hart Olmstead and John Jackson sat in Olmstead’s fancy office in New Orleans and stared in silence at one another. The two teams of men they’d sent into the Big Thicket country were long overdue. And both men knew that meant only one thing: they were not coming back. They knew another thing, too: Jamie Ian MacCallister had struck again.

Hart cursed and looked at a very rough drawing, a not very precise map of the Big Thicket country. It stretched for several hundred miles and was about as accurate as trying to count the fleas on a dog.

Both men were dressed elegantly, but anyone with a knowing eye could tell they were nothing more than dressed-up white trash. Both men had been rebuked by everyone of quality in the city. Jim Bowie, a man who had made a fortune working with the pirate, Jean Lafitte, in the selling of slaves, would have nothing to do with Olmstead or Jackson. Despite his wild reputation — Bowie had done it all, from capturing and breaking wild horses to riding on the backs of alligators for fun — Bowie was a gentleman, and knew trash when he saw it.

But Olmstead and Jackson were now reasonably well-off men, and their gangs of brigands were large, roaming all over several states and territories slaving — among other things, most of them borderline illegal or just plain outlawing.

Bowie was out of the city now, and not expected to return anytime soon. He was in Mexico, down in Saltillo, capital of the state of Coahuila, a guest of Veramendi, the vice-governor of San Antonio of de Bexar. Both of them were involved in some sort of land deal. Bowie was, according to rumors, also actively courting Veramendi’s daughter, Ursula.

Hart Olmstead hated Bowie, but concealed it rather well, for he was scared to death of the man ... most people with any sense were. Hart looked up from the crude map. “Titus could not find the cabins this trip?”

John shook his head. “No. He got everybody lost as a goose in those swamps. I tell you, Hart, you’ve got to see that place to believe it. It’s the spookiest damn place I ever seen in all my life.”

“I’ll see it,” Hart said. “I’m putting together an outfit now. We’re going into the Big Thicket country to settle this once and for all.”

The door to his office burst open, startling both men. Hart’s aide said, “Waymore Newby’s back. He’s been hurt. His gang was wiped out by that MacCallister person.”

“Goddamnit!” Hart said, slamming both hands onto his expensive desk. “Where is Waymore?”

“Bein’ attended to by the doctor. His left hand is crippled and the doctor’s diggin around now for the arrow in his hip.”

Waymore’s face was shiny with the sweat of pain, but he was conscious and able to talk, the bloody arrowhead lying in a pan on a table by his bed.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Hart asked.

“He ambushed us,” Waymore said, his voice weak. He elected not to tell the man about the attempted rape of his daughter or the callous killing of his grandbaby. “MacCallister killed all the men and scalped them.”

Both Hart and Jackson paled at that last bit of news.

“There ain’t nobody over yonder goin’ to arrest him, Hart. The area is po-liced by Chief Diwali’s Cherokees and Jamie’s done made friends with all of them. A man can’t git through the Big Thicket from the east. There just ain’t no way’cept that known to but a few, and they ain’t talkin’.”

Hart looked at the man’s heavily bandaged hand. Waymore caught the direction of his eyes and said, “It’s ruint. I ain’t got but scant use of a couple of fingers. I want to go back, Hart. I got me a score to settle with Jamie MacCallister.”

“We’re all going,” Hart promised. “I’m putting together supplies now. It’ll be a couple of months before I’m ready. I’ve got me a man down in the south of Texas who says he knows where Jamie and that whore daughter of mine live. Says he’s got a personal score to settle with MacCallister. Seems they had some trouble down in Galveztown a few years back. His name is Bradford.”

* * *

“Wagons comin’, Mr. Jamie,” Wells said, after galloping his horse into the yard and jumping from the saddle. He caught his breath. “Three wagons.”

“White men?”

“Yes, sir. Prosperous lookin,’ too. How’d they get through?”

“I don’t know. They sure took a chance.” Mexico had recently forbidden any further colonization of Texas by Americans and was strictly enforcing the importation of slaves into the territory.

“They’re about three miles out now,” Wells said. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ but men of quality ride a hoss the way the man in front does. And the women drivin’ the first two wagons is beautiful.”

“Interesting,” Jamie muttered. He had been sleeping outside for more than a week now, but no sign of those who were skulking about. Whoever they were had obviously stopped slipping about.

Jamie threw a saddle on a horse and rode out to meet the newcomers in the wagons. But they were not newcomers to Jamie, only to the territory.

It was Sam and Sarah Montgomery and Hannah and the Swede.