Scream of Eagles by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-06-14T04:00:00+00:00

20

After spending an hour erasing his tracks, Jamie reined up in a thicket along the Attoyac Bayou. Once he’d picketed his horses, he took his rifle from the boot and his field glasses from his saddlebags. On the crest of a knoll, just at the edge of the timber, he bellied down in the grass. He had waited until mid-morning, when the sun would be to his back—and in the eyes of those trailing him—and would not reflect off the lenses of the field glasses.

Jamie waited patiently, in his mind becoming one with the earth, his very being reverting back to his Shawnee training. The minutes ticked past, marching into an hour, then two. Jamie waited. Movement far in the distance caught his attention. He lifted the long lenses and adjusted for range. He counted twelve men, but they were too far away for him to pick out a face among the crowd.

One man did, however, seem vaguely familiar.

The men dismounted and appeared to be discussing something; probably what to do next. They broke apart and began circling all about, searching for the lost sign.

“Oh, come on, fellows,” Jamie muttered. “A six-year-old Shawnee boy could find that sign in two minutes.”

Jamie had no way of knowing if the men found his sign or not, but something warned them off. After several minutes of standing around, talking and pointing in his general direction, the men mounted up and headed off to the north, soon disappearing from view.

“They’re definitely after me,” Jamie said to the gentle wind that blew cool around him. “But I have no idea as to the who or why.”

He returned to his horses and pulled the picket pins, then stood for a moment, thoughtful. “Miles Nelson,” he mused aloud, then shook his head. He didn’t think so. He shrugged and swung into the saddle.

Jamie crossed the bayou and headed east; he was getting close to his old home now. Then he came to a road that sure hadn’t been there when he and the others had pulled out. And it was a well-traveled road, too.

There was a weathered sign that read CARTHAGE. An arrow under the name pointed the way.

“I’ll be damned,”Jamie muttered, as he walked his horses across the rutted road. “Progress has sure come to this area of Texas.”

* * *

The cabin was gone. Not a trace of it remained. Kicking around, Jamie found some old charred wood and wondered if the fire had been accidental or deliberate. It took him the better part of an hour to find the grave of Baby Karen. He spent the rest of the day pulling weeds and carving a new marker. Then he lined a square area around the grave with rocks. The marker read: KAREN MACCALLISTER B 1829 D 1829.

Jamie camped that night near where the old cabin had stood. He did not tarry long the next morning. After saddling up, he sat for a time, looking at the tiny grave site. “Goodbye, Baby Karen,” he said. “I reckon you’re with your mother now.

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