Free Dreams of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page A

watched and he knew it, he had known it since early that afternoon. And he was sure it was Indians looking him over. And it certainly was one of the four predominant tribes in this area: the Shoshoni, the Arapaho, the Crow, or the Cheyenne. He was still some south of the usual Blackfoot stomping grounds, but they sallied down this far occasionally. And the Blackfoot Indians were great warriors.
    Jamie’s grandpa had told him the Crow were friends of the Americans, with many bands boasting that they had never harmed a white man. But the elder MacCallister had smiled when he said that.
    Jamie had not unpacked, just pausing long enough to fry some bacon, make some coffee, and let the Indians think he was camped for the night. He left his small fire burning in a pit, surrounded by a circle of stones, and quietly pulled out, deliberately choosing the rockiest route he could find to better hide his trail. It wouldn’t fool the Indians for long, but it would buy him some time. He hoped. For Jamie had a gut hunch these Indians were hunting scalps.
    Jamie found a very rocky trail and took it, not knowing where it might take him. It took him straight into a cul-de-sac.
    â€œDamn!” he whispered, looking at the sheer rock walls that surrounded him. Then he smiled. He knew where he was! Preacher had described this place to him. Preacher had used it to hide from a war party one time. Yes. There were the skinny trees and scrub bushes. If he was right . . .
    Jamie carefully slipped into the small stand of trees and found the opening. There was the lightning bolt mark Preacher had scratched out near the narrow entrance. Then Jamie heard the faint sound of hooves striking rocks. He quickly led his horses down the dark and narrow passageway and turned them loose in the two acre clearing, with a small spring and plenty of graze. He quickly stripped the gear from the horses and they immediately began to graze on the lush grass. Jamie ran back up the passageway and carefully brushed out all sign of his ever being in the rocky cul-de-sac. Then he slipped back into the brush, rifle and pistols at hand, and waited.
    He’d been lucky. These were Blackfeet. But what the hell of were they doing so far south of their usual territory? Then he saw the paintings on their mounts. The dark square meant the war party leader. Beside that square, there was a hand painted. A recent kill in hand to hand combat. There were scalps tied to the pony’s mane and also on the leader’s lance—fresh scalps.
    Jamie did not speak the Blackfoot language, so he had no way of knowing what they were saying, only that they were definitely arguing, and some of them were getting hot about it. They seemed pretty sure that Jamie had come this way, and now he had disappeared. That just was not possible.
    Jamie had a couple of anxious moments when the war party leader slipped off his horse and inspected the rocky ground. Several times he looked directly at the trees and the brush. Then he walked over and stepped into the small stand of timber. He stood for a moment, then muttered something and walked out to join his party.
    But Jamie had seen something in the war chief’s eyes and had read it right: the man wasn’t convinced. He knew Jamie was near. But he was not about to venture deeper into that stand of timber. He did not get to be a war chief by being stupid.
    Jamie watched him make a big deal out of commanding his men to leave. They wouldn’t go far. Only back to the mouth of the blind canyon. That was fine with Jamie. He was in no hurry to pull out. He had plenty of food, there was graze for the horses and water for horse and human. If the Blackfeet found the entrance, Jamie could pile bodies up head high, for he had two rifles and six pistols, all fully loaded and ready to bang. He had his bow and arrows and his big Bowie knife. It would be one hell of a fight, that was for sure.
    But Jamie didn’t think the Blackfeet would stay