Five
Little Otter threw himself at Jamie and that move almost ended the fight for one of the combatants before it even began. Just as Jamie braced for a cut and slash, the heel of his moccasin slipped in the dirt and threw him off balance. With a premature cry of victory, Little Otter lunged forward and the steel of their knives clanged in the late afternoon air. Jamie backheeled Little Otter, and the Kiowa stumbled, giving Jamie time to recover and get set.
Little Otter recovered, and some of his fury seemed to leave him. He realized he was in a fight to the death with a warrior who was known to every tribe in the west and whose prowess was highly respected.
Jamie faked a thrust and Little Otter ignored it. The Kiowa swung a vicious slash and Jamie moved a few inches to one side, the blade flashing harmlessly in the rays of the sun.
Jamie suddenly screamed like an angry panther and startled Little Otter. He lost his concentration and dropped his guard. Jamie quickly stepped in and cut the Kiowa on the chest, the big blade whipping up from side to shoulder. The wound was not a serious one, but Jamie had drawn first blood and it was a painful cut.
Little Otter became wary now, backing up a few feet as the blood from the chest wound dripped to the churned-up earth. His eyes still burned with hate and pain, but caution had now tempered the fury. He shook his head to shake the sudden sweat away and the two men circled.
Sam stood and silently watched. Little Otter knew that even if he won this fight, the other white man would shoot him dead. He didn’t care. He feinted with his left hand and lunged at Jamie. The big man’s knife flashed like deadly lightning. Little Otter felt the shock of the blade as it cut through flesh and bone. He screamed and looked down at his left hand. But the hand wasn’t there. It was on the ground. He screamed again and looked up in horror just as Jamie thrust. Little Otter dropped his knife as Jamie’s meticulously hand-made Bowie buried to the hilt in his stomach, the cutting edge up. Little Otter had only a few seconds to live as Jamie jammed the blade upward, the heavy blade ripping through vital organs. The eyes of the two men met for just a moment.
“They did not lie about you,” Little Otter gasped.
“I reckon not,” Jamie said. “But you were warned.”
Jamie jerked the knife out and Little Otter sank to his knees, both hands holding his belly and chest. He fell over, dead.
Sam stepped over and stood looking down at the fallen warrior. “Do we bury him, Jamie?”
“No. His friends have not gone far. They’ll be back to get him. What we’ll do is move on another couple of miles and make camp. Let’s go while we still have light.”
The mules brayed and were not happy about moving on, but the men finally got them trail-ready and moved out. Jamie cut his eyes just as they were leaving. The Kiowa who had left Little Otter were sitting their horses about a thousand yards away, watching. Jamie lifted a hand and they did the same.
“Does that mean they won’t bother us tonight?” Sam asked.
“No. It just means they saw us and we saw them. Let’s get out of here.”
“I will never understand the thinking of an Indian,” Sam said.
Jamie smiled. “We’ll take turns standing guard tonight.”
“That goes without saying, my friend.”
But the Kiowa did not attack the camp that night. Jamie and Sam saw not another human being until they were about an easy day’s ride from the huge fort-like trading post. And the lone rider was coming at them from the north. Jamie halted the mules and squinted his eyes.
“I’ll be damned!” he said. “It’s Preacher.”
The two men swung down from their horses and shook hands, and then Jamie introduced Sam.
“I just seen your Grandpa, Jamie. He spoke highly of Sam, here. Spoke highly of the whole bunch with you. And that’s a rare compliment from Silver Wolf.”
“Where is Grandpa going to winter, Preacher?”
The mountain man shook his head. “Don’t know, Jamie. He gets on real good with the Blackfeet. He might winter with them. But then, he gets on with most Injuns. He’ll be all right, Jamie. That old man seen a doctor when he was in St. Louis a couple of years back. That doctor said he had the heart of a man half his age. He was plumb amazed, that doctor was. Come on. Let’s ride down to a spot I know and make camp. We’ll ride into the Fort come tomorrow.”
At first Sam had not been impressed by the mountain man called Preacher. Preacher, at first sight, was not an imposing-looking man. But for a year, Jamie had been teaching those in his group how to visually size up a man. Sam began to notice the little things about Preacher. The man moved with no wasted motion—like Jamie. He moved without making a sound—like Jamie. His eyes missed nothing around him—like Jamie. He kept rifle and pistol within arms reach at all times—like Jamie. He was never without his big-bladed knife—like Jamie. He also carried a smaller hideout knife stuck down in one legging—like Jamie. And on Preacher’s horse was a strong-looking bow and a quiver of arrows. Just like Jamie.
Watching Preacher, Sam soon learned that the man was tremendously strong and very, very quick. Sam concluded his observations by deciding that Preacher would be a very good man to have around in case of trouble—and a very bad enemy. Sam had pegged Preacher very accurately.
Bent’s Fort, planned by Charles and William Bent and constructed by Mexican workers, located near the junction of the Arkansas and Purgatory Rivers, was in operation from late 1832 to the late 1840s. Within its walled, fort-like confines several hundred men could relax and drink and eat and hundreds of animals could be corralled, all of it designed for maximum safety. Men of all creeds and colors passed through the huge, fortified gates: mountain men and pioneers, Indians of the Cheyenne, Arapaho, Comanche, Kiowa, Ute, and Gros Ventre nations. Within the walls there was seldom any trouble. Outside the four-foot thick and fourteen-foot tall adobe walls of the fort, nothing was guaranteed.
As the trio of men and their long string of mules rode in, even the most grizzled and hardened of mountain men paused to look at the man with the long blond hair. Those who knew Silver Wolf, and nearly everyone did, knew at first glance this was his grandson, the living legend from the Alamo down in Texas. The man raised by Shawnees and called Man Who Is Not Afraid.
And Preacher immediately began enhancing that legend by quickly spreading the news of the Kiowa attack and of the knife fight with Little Otter.
A friendly—at least for the moment—Kiowa nodded his head at the news. “Knew Little Otter,” he told Preacher. “He was a good warrior. But quick to lose his temper. There will not be many songs sung for him.”
Lounging in the rough bar, six men sat, passing the jug back and forth. They’d ridden in from the States a few days back and, for the most part, kept to themselves. That did not bring them to anyone’s attention, for many mountain men were notorious for demanding solitude. Fights had started over merely speaking to some mountain men.
“Id not like to tangle with that one alone,” a man who sported a full beard remarked in a whisper, his eyes on Jamie, standing just outside the watering hole.
“A ball will bring him down just like any other man,” a dirty companion replied.
“Just make damn shore you place it well,” another said. “He’s big as a bear.”
“An’ from what I’ve been told, ’bout three times as dangerous,” the fourth man observed. “An’ now that I’ve put eyes on him, I agree.”
“Bah!” the smelly, dirty man softly scoffed. “He’s just a man. All them tales is hogwash and bunkum. I dasn’t believe none of them.”
“We was paid to do a job,” the first man said. “And we don’t get the bulk of the money ‘til it’s done and MacCallister’s head is pickled. We’ll talk no more of it ’til we’re safe of unfriendly ears.” He got up and walked out into the huge open area, roughly a hundred and fifty feet by two hundred feet.
Jamie and Sam socialized for a time with some of Preacher’s friends, had a bite to eat in a relaxed atmosphere, and then set about ordering supplies. Their plans were not to tarry at the fort but to supply up and head back as quickly as possible.
Flour, sugar, coffee, dress and shirt material, and other staples were purchased, marked with their names, and stored until time to load the packs for the return trip. Candy for the kids was an important item not to be overlooked; ribbons for the girls’ hair and some foofaws and geegaws for the smaller kids. Sam saw to the buying of seed for gardens and Jamie saw to the purchasing of lead and powder and percussion caps. Jamie bought a fine knife for his oldest son, Jamie Ian, and a locket for Kate.
“You better buy something nice for Sarah,” he told Sam with a smile, just as Jamie saw a small man walking toward him.
“Mister MacCallister?” the slight man said in a very soft voice.
“Yes,” Jamie said, turning and towering over the man.
“I’m Kit Carson.” The man offered his hand and Jamie took it. The hand was small but calloused and hard as oak; Jamie could feel the gentle strength in the man’s grip.
Sam, sensing that the noted scout and frontiersman had something he wanted to discuss in private with Jamie, excused himself and left the two men alone.
The six men who had traveled from the States to kill Jamie and bring back his head also took note of the verbal exchange between Carson and MacCallister, unaware that Preacher was standing across the clearing, taking note of them.
“Bounty hunters if ever I saw any,” Preacher muttered. “So they’s still some back in the States filled with hate for Jamie MacCallister.” Preacher decided he’d keep an eye on the bounty hunters.
Kit Carson and Jamie stood for several moments, conversing in low tones. Then they both laughed, shook hands amiably, and Carson walked away.
Sam strode over to Jamie’s side. “That expedition matter again?”
“Yes. I told Kit I’d have to discuss it with my wife. I’d give him a reply come the spring.”
“You want to go, don’t you, Jamie?”
“Well . . . it does sound like it might be a right interesting trip.”
Jamie and Sam, the mules loaded with supplies, pulled out at dawn the next morning. The six bounty hunters left about an hour later. Preacher saddled up and rode out an hour after the bounty hunters. He felt certain the guns-for-hire would not attack until they were several days away from Bent’s Fort.
Preacher trailed the bounty hunters for two days.. During both nights he slipped up on their camp and listened to their foul talk of murder for hire. The mountain man could have killed them all right then and there and ended it, but this was a personal matter between them and Jamie, and he felt sure that Jamie would want to handle it his way. On the afternoon of the third day, Preacher skirted the bounty hunters wide and rode up to Jamie and Sam’s camp. He saw to his horses and then squatted down by the fire and poured a cup of coffee from the blackened pot.
Preacher was not at all surprised when Jamie said, “You come to warn me about those six men on my trail, Preacher?”
The mountain man smiled and nodded his head. “I figured you’d have picked up on them by now.”
“What six men?” Sam asked, clearly startled.
“I noticed them back at the fort,” Jamie said. “Surly looking bunch of scalawags. I pegged them as bounty hunters, hired by Olmstead or his kin, or by the Saxons or the Newbys or the Jacksons. I thought that blood feud had ended years back. I guess I was wrong.”
“I heard all them names and more mentioned over two nights of listenin’ to their evil talk,” Preacher said. “They aim to kill you, cut off your head, and tote it in a pickle jug back to the States.”
“What are you two talking about?” Sam demanded. He stared at Preacher for a moment. “Cut off his head? Pickle it? My God, man!”
“Relax,” Jamie told his friend. “I’m sort of attached to my head, not to mention rather fond of it. And Kate would certainly be irritated if I returned home without my head.” He laughed at the serious expression on the older man’s face. “Sam . . . when we get a couple of more days behind us, I’ll take care of those following us and then we’ll be done with it.”
“You want some help?” Preacher asked, knowing full well what Jamie’s reply would be.
“No. I’ll stomp on my own snakes, Preacher.”
“Figured you’d say that.” Ignoring Sam Montgomery’s open-mouthed expression of exasperation and concern, Preacher said, “When do we eat? I’m hungry.”