Eleven
As soon as Jamie and Sam and the mules vanished into the rocks those behind sought cover.
“No decent man would do that,” Sam remarked. “They must be scalawags.”
Jamie did not reply. His mind had already shifted to what the Shawnee called the Warrior’s Way. His eyes had taken in all his surroundings, picking out the best defensive positions and any place he and Sam might be vulnerable. He concluded that they were in a very good spot.
“Secure the mules, Sam. And bring the rifles up here when you return.”
“Are they Indians, Jamie?”
“No. White men. But I don’t have a clue as to who they might be. And that troubles me.”
After Sam had picketed the mules and gathered up the rifles, he said, “You told us about the man you had trouble with last summer, Jamie. Could this be him and his kin?”
“Maybe. But it could be anybody. To have lived no longer than I have, I certainly managed to gather more than my share of enemies.”
Sam nodded his head in agreement with that. Jamie had just passed his thirtieth birthday, and Sam had never known nor could think of anyone in recent memory who had more enemies than Jamie MacCallister.
The puzzle was suddenly solved when a shout rang out. “You give us them fine-lookin’ mules and you boys can ride on. There ain’t no mules worth dyin’ for. Think about that.”
“Highwaymen,” Sam said with a snort.
Jamie smiled. “How can they be highwaymen when there are no highways out here, Sam?”
Sam shook his head. Jamie’s sense of humor could surface at the strangest of times. “Then we’ll just call them thieves.”
“Among other things.”
“How ’bout it, boys?” the shout came from the west of their location.
“Why don’t you come and take them,” Jamie yelled defiantly.
“That ain’t very smart on your part,” the unknown man yelled. “You bes’ think ’bout that some.”
Jamie leveled his rifle and put a big ball whining and bouncing among the rocks where the thieves were hiding. He did not expect to hit anyone, and he didn’t, but judging from the yelling, he sure caused some anxious moments among the brigands.
“Fire into those rocks, Sam. Let’s give them something to think about.”
Sam and Jamie emptied eight rifles into the rocks as fast as they could pull their triggers, and this time they drew blood. A man gave out a terrible shout of pain, which was followed by horrible choking sounds, then silence.
“You sorry sons!” the voice shouted again. “You’ve kilt my partner.”
“Good!” Sam yelled.
Jamie looked at him and grinned. It had taken Sam awhile to learn about law and order in the wilderness, but once he caught on, the lesson stayed with him.
“That ball took half his head off!” the indignant brigand yelled.
Jamie and Sam remained silent. They had a small spring behind them in the rock. Not enough water for a sustained standoff but enough to get them by for a day or two. However, Jamie had no intention of letting this continue for a day or two. Sam, looking at the set of Jamie’s jaw, could read that in his face. Jamie’s eyes were bleak and cold, the pale blue softness replaced by a terrible hard light. Jamie would befriend anyone who needed help, but cross him, and he would become a deadly foe.
Suddenly, there came a shout from the rocks. “We’ll meet again, boys! No man crosses Pete Thompson and lives long to boast about it.”
“Who is Pete Thompson?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know,” Jamie replied. “But he’s a fool, telling us his name after threatening to steal our mules.”
Seconds after the sound of the brigands’ leaving reached them, Jamie was out of the rocks and moving toward the rocks just below them. He stood for a moment over the body of the dead man. Thompson had been right: the ball had made a mess of the man’s head.
“You know him?” Sam asked.
Jamie shook his head. “No. Ground’s too hard to dig here. Let’s gather up some rocks and cover him best we can. Then we’ll move on.”
Sam had long grown accustomed to Jamie’s coldness when it came to dealing with outlaws, so the suggestion did not shock him as it would have years back. Sam went through the man’s pockets and found only a few coins; no clue as to who he might have been. After covering the outlaw with rocks, Jamie went to retrieve the mules, and Sam Montgomery stood for a moment over the mound of rocks, battered hat in hand. He knew he should say something over the remains, but the words just would not come to him. He finally shook his head and walked back to Jamie and the mules. Jamie just looked at him and said nothing. Five minutes later, they were on the trail, heading east toward Bent’s Fort.
* * *
Jamie asked around at the fort, but no one there had ever heard of anyone called Pete Thompson.
“Country’s fillin’ up,” a trapper said. “A body can’t ride a whole week without seein’ some settlers tryin’ to scratch out a crop somewheres. But with the good comes the bad. I’ll shore pass the word ’bout Thompson. I get him in gunsights, that’ll be the end of Pete Thompson. We don’t need his kind out here.”
“I got a harpsichord in the back,” Jamie was told when he placed his order for a piano. “Been here nigh on five years. Man ordered it and never come back to get it. I guess his horse throwed him or a bear grabbed him or a rattlesnake struck him or the Injuns got him. I can make you a real deal on it.”
“I’ll take it,” Jamie said quickly, without even inquiring as to the price.
A trapper standing nearby said, “You cain’t tote no harpsichord acrost country on a mule, son. Thar wouldn’t be nothin’ left of it time you got where you was goin’.”
“Who owns that piece of a wagon out back?” Sam asked.
“Why . . . nobody,” the counterman said. “You want it, take it.”
And thus began the legend of the harpsichord. Years later, long after Andrew became one of the young country’s best loved concert pianists, he still delighted in telling how his father and Sam Montgomery transported a harpsichord across several hundred miles of wilderness . . . and managed to get it to the valley in one piece.
It was quite a sight as Jamie and Sam—with Sam driving the wagon—pulled out at dawn from Bent’s Fort.
“I want to hear some pretty music from the high country!” a trapper called out. Jamie waved.
“Hell,” another mountain man said. “Let’s ride with them. I want to be shore that music machine gits to where somebody can make pretty sounds come out of it.”
“Damn good idee,” another said. “Let’s do it.”
And so it was that a dozen heavily-armed, grizzled, buckskin-clad, bearded, and uncurried trappers and mountain men escorted the harpsichord from Bent’s Fort to the valley. They encountered several bands of Indians, some of whom were decidedly unfriendly. But none of the war-painted Indians wanted to tangle with that tough-looking bunch. Several times, after supper, the men unloaded the harpsichord and Sam played the few tunes that he knew. It didn’t matter that he played the same songs over and over, for to the mountain men, long separated from kith and kin, it brought back memories of parents, brothers and sisters, sweethearts, and a way of life they had long abandoned. Many times, Sam played long into the quiet night. Indians listened in amazement to the sounds in the darkness, looking at one another and shaking their heads. Truly, all white men were crazy.