Free Dreams of Eagles by William W. Johnstone

asked.
    â€œBiggers,” the man said, picking up a piece of pan bread with extremely dirty fingers and sopping it through the grease left in the frying pan. He stuffed his mouth full and said, “Jack Biggers.” He stared at Jamie for a moment while he chewed. “You a big’un, ain’t you?”
    â€œI’ve been told that a time or two.”
    â€œBut I got the rifle, so big don’t mean shit, do it?”
    Jamie shrugged at that. “Indians get you?”
    â€œNaw. Trappers. Caught me stealin’ some of their supplies and set upon me fierce. It was uncalled for. They had a-plenty and I had nothin.’ They seen that plain. They could have shared with me.”
    Give me something for nothing, Jamie thought. The trappers would probably have willingly shared what they had with Biggers had he asked. But he chose to steal. Jamie felt nothing but contempt for the man. And he wasn’t sure he believed the man’s story.
    â€œYou ‘member that name, mister,” Biggers said. “Jack Biggers. I got kin to meet me down to Bent’s Fort. They’s waitin’. I’m a-fixin’ to take your hoss and git back to them. Then we’ll come back here and I’ll settle up with them goddamn trappers, and you, too, if’n you get antsy with me.”
    â€œTake what you want,” Jamie said.
    Jack sneered at him. “You a big‘un, all right, but you ain’t got no sand to your bottom. If’n I had the time, I’d give you a whuppin’ just for the fun of it.”
    Jamie was amused at that. But he managed to hide his smile. Several times in his life he had killed men with just one single blow from his fist. Jim Bowie had seen him do that in south Texas one day. Besides, Biggers was almighty careless in his movements. Jamie had let several opportunities slide where he could have taken the rifle from the man.
    He watched as Biggers stuffed food and other supplies into a sack and then moved toward Horse. When he bent down to pick up the saddle, Horse kicked the snot out of him. Jack Biggers went flying and tumbling and rolling ass over elbows and came to a hard halt on his belly about twenty-five feet from point of impact.
    Jamie rose from the ground—he’d been sitting with his back to a log—and walked over to retrieve Biggers’ rifle. Biggers was moaning and writhing on the ground. Jamie felt the man was at least badly bruised in the ass area but had no way of knowing if his injuries were any more than that—and didn’t care.
    He put out his small fire and saddled up, after stowing his supplies. He swung up into the saddle. He had unloaded Jack’s rifle and now contemptuously threw the rifle on the ground beside the man.
    â€œHep me,” Biggers moaned. “I’m hurt fearsome.”
    â€œHelp yourself,” Jamie told him. “I would have given you supplies had you but asked for them. But men like you never learn. Hell with you.”
    â€œI’ll kill you someday,” Biggers threatened. “You got a name?”
    â€œMacCallister. Jamie Ian MacCallister.”
    Biggers paled under the dirt on his face. “Heared of you. But that don’t make no difference. I’ll git my brothers and kin and we’ll be back.”
    â€œI’ll be around,” Jamie said, then rode off, leaving Jack Biggers shouting wild curses and threats to his back.
    Jamie made camp about five miles north of where he’d left Jack Biggers. Two days later, he crossed over into Wyoming. He had put Jack Biggers out of his conscious mind, tucking the man into the far reaches of his brain. But Jamie had certainly not forgotten him. He never forgot a threat. Jack Biggers might have just been running off at the mouth, and he might not have been. It was best to take a threat seriously.
    Jamie camped early in the shadow of what would someday be named Bridger Peak, after the legendary Jim Bridger. He was being