Eight
Charleston, South Carolina.
“Miss LeBeau,” said the young gentleman from Virginia. “Permit me to say that your performance this evening was simply outstanding. Your talent is surpassed only by your loveliness.”
“Why, sir, you are much too kind,” Anne said, blushing furiously and hiding the lower half of her face behind a tiny fan.
“Please forgive me for being a bit forward, Miss LeBeau,” Cort Woodville said. “But since the play closed here in Charleston this evening, and I could not bear the thought of your leaving without my seeing you, I shamelessly admit I bribed the stage door guard to let me in. Miss LeBeau, would you have dinner with me?”
“Why ...” Anne was thinking fast. The play was moving west the next day, and she had absolutely no desire to travel west of the Mississippi River. And because of her temperament—which some members of the cast had compared to an enraged grizzly—Anne was having trouble finding directors who would put up with her frequent temper tantrums. Anne knew all about Cort Woodville; she’d been aware for days that the young man was interested in her. Anne had investigated Cort Woodville very carefully and very thoroughly. Now here he was, the goose whose family laid golden eggs—by the bushel basket.
“Mr. Woodville,” Anne said, “I would be delighted to have dinner with you.”
“Oh, Miss LeBeau,” the love-struck Virginia gentleman said. “My heart is so filled with happiness I fear it might burst with joy.”
Idiot! Anne thought. “I’ll be ready in half an hour, Mr. Woodville.”
“I’ll count the seconds, Miss LeBeau.”
What a ninny! Anne thought.
Her brother was waiting for her in her dressing room. “We’ve just been fired from the cast, Anne,” he told her.
Anne peeled out of her dress and shrugged her pretty shoulders. “No matter. Cort Woodville just took the bait, swallowing hook, line, and sinker.”
“The fool that’s been in the audience every damn night we’ve played this town?”
“Yes. He’s really quite attractive . . . though somewhat of a simpleton. But his family is one of the wealthiest in all of Virginia—if not the richest.”
Roscoe’s eyes shone with greed. “This could be our ticket, Anne.”
“Don’t you think I know that? Why do you think I bribed the guard to let Cort in this evening? Now get out. I have to bathe and dress. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”
Her brother gone, Anne stripped and inspected herself in the full-length mirror. She knew she was beautiful. Her body was the color of pale ivory, and flawless. Her hair was black and her eyes a dark blue. “Tonight’s the night, Anne,” she whispered. “Play your cards right, and you’re set for life.”
Anne put on the finest performance of her life that evening. Thirty minutes after she’d entered Cort’s carriage, the young man had taken the bait. Another thirty minutes and she had him hooked forever.
“I can’t bear the thought of you leaving,” Cort said over dinner in Charleston’s finest. “I just can’t.”
“Well,” Anne said, sipping her coffee. “I really don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“What do you mean . . . dear,” Cort was so bold to add, delighted at her smile.
“I have six weeks before I have to leave for New York City. And my brother and I don’t have the foggiest idea how or where we want to spend those weeks.”
“At Ravenswood!” Cort blurted.
“At where?” Anne asked. She knew all about Ravenswood. It was the largest plantation in all of Virginia. Thousands and thousands of acres and hundreds of slaves.
“The most beautiful plantation in all of Virginia,” Cort said. “Oh, we’ll have a grand time, Anne. And my parents will love you.” He started to add, “As much as I do,” but decided that might be rushing things just a bit.
Anne hesitated, frowning. Cort took her soft, perfumed hands in his, which were just about as soft, and said, “It’s settled, Anne. I will not take no for an answer.” He gazed into her blue eyes. “Anne, it is my fervent hope that once you see Ravenswood, you’ll not want to leave.”
She smiled at him.
* * *
Jamie put the war behind him and headed north. He did not dislike California, but it was too settled for him. Jamie liked the wild country. He liked to go to sleep listening to the wolves howling and the coyotes yipping and yapping. He felt better once he was in northern California and better yet when he crossed over into the territories.
The nights were getting downright cold, the days crisp, and for three days, he had known that someone was dogging his back trail. They—and he was certain it was more than one—were laying well back and had shown no signs of being hostile. But Jamie had a bad feeling about it in his guts. And Jamie had long ago learned to trust his instincts.
He smiled as he recalled talking with his son while camped outside of Los Angeles, after Ian had complained about so many people wanting to see him dead.
“You’ve got a ways to go to catch me, Ian,” Jamie had told him. “Counting all the inlaws and outlaws of those who have sworn to kill me, I figure I’ve got four or five hundred men wanting my scalp.”
“Still, Pa, after all these years?”
“Oh, yes, son.” He looked hard at his son. “You knew that Wesley Parsons and Winslow were in Los Angeles, didn’t you?”
“They were there, Pa. I got there too late. How’d you find out?”
“Same way you did, boy. I asked around.”
“I got no more hate in my heart, Pa. I want to see Ma and the valley again.”
“Then do it, boy,” Jamie had said softly.
Jamie was so lost in thought he almost missed Horse’s ears pricking up. Then he felt the sudden tension of the big animal and Jamie touched his heels to Horse’s flanks and jumped him off the trail and into the timber. The shot that was intended for him slammed into a tree.
Jamie left the saddle and let the reins dangle. He grabbed his rifle from the boot and slipped into the brush, heading back in the direction he’d come, for the shot had come from behind him.
Jamie found a good position and bellied down on the cool ground. He could hear not a sound, for at the boom of the shot, the forest critters had fallen silent and tense.
Jamie was almost certain his attackers were not Indians, for the Indians in this area were mostly peaceful fishers and farmers. Coos and Siuslaw and Alsea and Tillamook. Jamie had been hugging the coast for several days, enjoying the smell and sounds of the ocean.
He did not enjoy being shot at.
Jamie’s patience, taught him by the Shawnee Indians who had taken him as a small boy, was limitless. He did not move. Somebody down there would make a mistake, sooner or later. But it would not be Jamie.
Finally, he caught a small splash of color that did not fit in with the terrain or the foliage. After a few moments, the color moved and became larger. Now Jamie could make out the chest of a man. He hesitated, then lifted his rifle and sighted in. His rifle boomed and the splash of color was now all mixed with crimson. The man rose up to his full height, swayed there for a moment, and then slowly toppled over backward, to lay in a still sprawl.
The sounds of cursing reached him. Then a voice. “I told you Perry didn’t get him.”
“Well, he shore got Perry,” another voice said. “Now what?”
“We wait. He’s just a kid. He’ll make a mistake.”
They think I’m Ian, Jamie thought. But by now Ian’ll be home, or very close to the valley.
Then Jamie caught movement off toward the west, his left from where he was lying in the brush. He had shifted locations immediately after the shot. Somebody was trying to circle around. But they made a mistake, and in stalking, one mistake could be fatal.
Jamie began to stalk his stalker, and Jamie had no equal at man-hunting. For a man of his size, he was soundless in the timber, moving like a ghost.
Jamie often used the Indian method of concealment, simply hiding where there is no cover. Most people look at things, but never really see them.
The man Jamie was stalking was very good, for twice Jamie lost his quarry. Then Jamie made his move, as quick and silent and awesome as a puma’s strike. Jamie clubbed the man on the side of his head and the man dropped like a stone. Jamie trussed him up and then slapped him into consciousness. The man opened his eyes to feel the cold steel of Jamie’s razor sharp Bowie knife on his throat.
“As any fool can plainly see,” Jamie whispered. “I’m the boy’s pa. And I don’t like people shooting at me. Now I would have to say that you fellows made a really bad mistake. What do you think about it?”
The man was scared but defiant. “Don’t make no difference. They’s gold on your head, too.”
“Howard!” the shout came from below them. “Watch it. The kid’s moved. He’s after you.”
“Wrong!” Jamie shouted. “I’ve got him. And my name is Jamie. Ian is my son.”
There was a few seconds of silence. “Shit!” a man said.
“MacCallister!” another voice was added. “Don’t hurt Howard. He’s my brother. You hurt him and by God I’ll trail you straight into Hell if I have to.”
Jamie suddenly rose, picking Howard up as if the man were a child and flinging him down the slope. Howard bounced and slammed into rocks and trees and howled in pain. Jamie quickly shifted positions, back to his original spot.
“Goddamn you, MacCallister!” Howard’s brother yelled up the slope, for a moment exposing himself.
Jamie snapped off a shot, the ball whining off the huge rock beside the man, chipping off fragments and lashing the man’s face with the tiny bits of stone.
Just as soon as he shot, Jamie raced back to Horse and led the animal a few hundred yards into the brush before mounting up and quietly riding out. If those pursuing him were fool enough to follow, the next time they met, the advantage was going to be all Jamie’s.
They followed. An hour later, Jamie sat Horse in the timber and looked with a disgusted expression in his eyes as the men pressed on after him.
For a moment, Jamie debated whether or not to just lose the men and go on about his business. Then he thought of home and Kate and all the kids in the peaceful valley. If he didn’t stop the man-hunters here, they’d surely come into the valley, just like those who came after Wiley Harper did.
He slid off Horse and took his rifles. Without even realizing he was doing it, Jamie’s eyes had already found the best defensive position. He got down behind the fallen logs and waited. He had made up his mind about something else, too: once this pack of man-hunters was dealt with, he was going to take the pressure off of his son. He was going to lay down the warning and have it spread from one end of the wilderness to the other: End the hunt for my son or face me. One way or the other, Jamie was going to see to it that his son did not have to endure what he had been forced to endure all his life: one seemingly endless fight for survival after the other.
Jamie lifted his rifle and punched a hole in the chest of a man below him. The man threw his rifle into the air and fell backward, rolling down the grade.
“You damned murderin’ bastard!” a familiar voice reached him. Howard’s brother.
Jamie reloaded and waited.
Then Jamie watched through unbelieving eyes as the bounty hunters came screaming and charging up the hill.
“Idiots,” he said, and quickly emptied both rifles, stopping the charge of two of the men. The other men hit the ground and hugged it close.
He shifted positions until he found an upthrusting of rocks. He recharged his rifles and then sat down, settling his broad back against one huge boulder that seemed so secure it must extend all the way down to bedrock. Jamie put his feet against the huge boulder in front of him and began pushing. The rock began to teeter under the strength from Jamie’s legs. Jamie grunted and pushed and the rock gave way, slowly leaving its perch and rumbling downhill. As it rolled, it dislodged others and soon a minor avalanche was sending tons of rock down the slope, destroying anything and everything in its path.
Jamie heard men scream and others yell in panic for friends to get out of the way. But the man-hunters had nowhere to go.
The ground-trembling and the roaring went on for several minutes, the larger rocks gathering other rocks and logs and small trees before them, pushing them all toward the bottom.
Jamie sat with his back to the boulder and waited until the awesome slide was over. He chewed on some jerky and listened to the silence while he thought things through.
There must have been ten or twelve men in this bunch. That meant, to Jamie’s mind, that somebody with a lot of money was posting the bounty on his son’s head . . .
“Oh, God!” a man called weakly. “Help me, for God’s sake.”
And that somebody was more than likely the rich man from back east. What was his name? Yeah—Evans. Big man in industry whose son had raped and killed a girl and then had to hit the outlaw trail. His final mistake was coming after Ian.
“Please!” another man called. “My legs is crushed.”
Jamie didn’t like the idea of traveling back east, but if that was what it was going to take to get the bounty hunters off his son’s trail, then so be it!
“You got to help me!” the first man called. “I’m buried from the waist down. You can’t leave us here to die.”
There was a trading post about a day’s ride from the avalanche site. Jamie would go there and start spreading the word to trappers and pilgrims alike. He’d post a letter to Kate, too, give it to someone traveling back east, telling her what he was planning. He felt sure she would approve.
“You rotten son of a bitch!” Howard’s brother called. “My back is broke. My kin will avenge me, damn your black heart. You’ll not get clear of this.”
If he had to stay out in the wilderness for the next two years, he would, by God, reach every bounty hunter after Ian and read some Scriptures to the men. Or over them, didn’t make a damn bit of difference to Jamie which one it was . . .
Below him, men were both cursing and praying. It was a very strange mixture.
He was going to end this hunt for his son. And if he had to wade through blood to do it, that was fine with him.
“MacCallister! Is you gonna hep us, or no?”
“No,” Jamie called down the slope, then walked back to Horse and rode out.