Free Scream of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page B

“If your name be MacCallister.”
    â€œIt is. I’m Jamie Ian.”
    â€œYou’ll be Falcon’s brother?”
    â€œI am. And you are? . . .”
    â€œMary Marie O’Donnell.” She handed him the note from Falcon.
    Jamie Ian read the note, a smile slowly creeping across his lips. Then he laughed. “You can stay with us until we can find you a place.” He spotted his son, Jamie Ian the Third, walking up the street and waved him over. “Pick up the lady’s trunk, boy, and tote it down to our house.”
    Jamie Ian the Third stood staring at Mary Marie, his mouth hanging open.
    She smiled sweetly at him.
    â€œDid you hear me, boy?” his father asked.
    Jamie Ian the Third turned and hit his head on an awning post, putting a knot on his forehead.
    â€œGood Lord!” the father said.
    â€œFalcon didn’t tell me you had a son that was addled,” Mary Marie said.
    â€œOnly at times,” Jamie Ian told her, picking up her carpetbag.
    Matthew and Morgan walked up. Morgan looked at the red knot on young Jamie’s forehead. “You get in a fight, boy?”
    â€œShot in the butt with an arrow is more like it,” Jamie Ian told his brother.
    â€œAn arrow?” Matthew questioned, leaning over to inspect his nephew’s rear end.
    â€œIt’s a long story,” Jamie Ian told his other brother. “You two pick up the lady’s trunk. I’ll fill you in on the way over to the house.” He turned to his son. “Do you think you could find your way home without falling down or running into anything else, boy?”
    â€œSure, I can, Pa!”
    â€œThen take the lady’s arm and let’s go.”
    Jamie Ian the Third took a misstep and fell off the boardwalk, landing in the street in a sprawl of arms and legs.
    Mary Marie shook her head. “Poor lad’s spastic, too,” she remarked.
    * * *
    Jamie sat alone at a table in the rear of the trading post just north of the Colorado Territorial line, slowly eating from a large bowl of stew. The winter winds were howling like banshees, beating furiously against the walls of the trading post. Huge, wet snowflakes were tumbling out of the sky.
    Jamie tore off a chunk of fresh-baked bread and sopped up some liquid, chewing slowly. He was very conscious of the four men sitting at a table on the other side of the room, occasionally glancing over at him, then returning to their low talking and whiskey drinking.
    Jamie’s hair held no more gold among the silver. In the months since Kate’s death, his hair had completely grayed, as had his beard, making him look older than he really was. But he still had most of his teeth. Old-timers knew that Jamie Ian MacCallister still had quite a bite—in more ways than one—but much younger men either did not know the legends about Jamie, or did not believe them. For some younger men, that lack of knowledge would prove to be tragic.
    â€œOl’-timer,” one of the men across the room called. “You sloppin’ up that food like a hog at a trough. You ’bout to make me sick.”
    Jamie said nothing. He continued eating.
    The man behind the bar got ready to hit the floor. He had come west back in the ’40s and knew all about Jamie Ian MacCallister.
    The one man standing by the rough bar said, “You bes’ shut your mouth, Woody. ’Fore you stick a boot in it.”
    â€œGo to hell,” Woody told him.
    The man who had offered the friendly warning shrugged his shoulders and picked up his cup and jug and moved as far away from the line of fire as he could.
    â€œI’m talkin’ to you, old man,” Woody turned his attentions back to Jamie. “What’s the matter, are you deef?”
    Jamie did not look up. He continued eating, enjoying the meal and the warmth if not the company.
    â€œHey!” Woody yelled. “Look at me when I talk to you, you old turd!”
    Jamie laid