Prologue
Jamie Ian MacCallister and his wife Kate were both fifteen years old when they were married in the river town of New Madrid, Missouri. They remained married and faithful and true to one another for forty-five years. By the time Kate died in Jamie’s arms after an outlaw raid on the Colorado town they helped found, Jamie and Kate had produced a houseful of kids and dozens of grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Jamie had already lived longer than many men of that time, but somebody forgot to tell Jamie about that. For a man his age, he was still bull strong and wang-leather tough. His hair was gray, but his heart was young. He used eyeglasses to read fine print, but he sure didn’t need glasses to shoot.
The loss of Kate hit Jamie harder than anything ever had over the long and tumultuous years. For several weeks after her violent and untimely death, Jamie could not clearly focus on anything except her dying and the lonely grave overlooking MacCallister’s Valley. He holed up deep in the mountains and let his grief take control for a time.
Jamie relived over and over each and every memory shared with Kate. The good and the bad. The laughter and the tears. The pain and the pleasure.
The pleasure far outweighed the pain.
After a couple of weeks, Jamie began to realize that Kate would not want him doing this. All the grieving in the world would not bring her back from the grave. She was at peace now, having climbed the Starry Path to be greeted by Man Above. She would wait there for him.
Jamie looked up at the high cloudless blue of the sky. He sighed and then smiled. “You know what I have to do, Kate. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do it. Of course,” he said drily, “I might not live much longer doing it. But I reckon that would be all right, too. ’Cause then I’d be with you.”
Jamie buckled on his pistols. Twin .44s, model 60 conversion. He wiped the dust off his rifle, a Winchester model 68. He tidied up his camp, packed the frame on the packhorse, and saddled up his big, mean-eyed buckskin. One of his grandchildren—he couldn’t remember which one, much less the child’s name, Kate had always kept track of those things—had named the huge animal Buck.
It was turning colder now, with winter not far off. During the weeks that Jamie had spent wrapped in his grief, those responsible for the attack on MacCallister’s Valley, and the death of Kate, the Miles Nelson gang, would have scattered like dust in the wind. Any trail would be as cold as the stars.
“I got a few good years left in me,” Jamie muttered. Buck swung his big head around to look at him. “And I’ll use them finding you all. My son Matthew talks of book law and justice. That’s his way. I’ll have justice my way.”
He swung easily into the saddle, the movements like a man twenty years younger.
“I’ll find you all,” Jamie repeated. “And I’ll kill you.”
Overhead, soaring on the winds, an eagle screamed.