“Made by Noah Smithwick,” Jamie said. “I believe you have made his acquaintance.”
Bowie smiled and then laughed. For it was Noah who had made the knife he now carried in a sheath at his side. “I’ve met the gentleman a time or two,” Bowie responded, as the men stepped to the door of the shady saloon.
The saloon stank of stale sweat, unwashed bodies, and clothing worn too long. The noses of Jamie, Bonham, and Bowie wrinkled against the unnecessary foulness as they stepped into the semigloom of the grog shop and walked to the plank bar.
The saloon was full for this time of day, and as Bonham had whispered to Jamie upon his arrival, he knew none of the men.
“What a foul lot,” Bowie said, in a voice that was deliberately loud and intended to reach the ears of everyone present. It did.
Some of the men stirred in anger, but none among them had any desire whatsoever to match blades with Jim Bowie. For if they challenged him, it would be Bowie’s choice of weapons, and they all knew what that would be.
“Whiskey,” Jamie said. “And wash out the cups,” he added. “Carefully.”
Bowie and Bonham laughed at that.
The barkeep gave Jamie a hot look, but was wise enough to add nothing vocally. He dunked three cups in a bucket of water and set them and a jug on the planks. Then the man behind the bar moved to the far end, just as far as he could go, putting himself well out of the line of fire he felt was inevitable.
Bowie splashed whiskey in his cup and downed it. “Awful stuff,” he said, then smiled. “Don’t know why anyone would want to drink it.” Then he picked up the jug and refilled his cup.
Why anyone would want to tangle with a person of Jamie’s size and near legend reputation was a mystery to both Bonham and Bowie. Even quietly standing at the rough bar, slowly sipping his cup of whiskey, even a fool could see that MacCallister had the power in those massive arms to snap a grown man’s back like a twig. But the Good Lord, in all His wisdom, for whatever reason, placed a large number of fools on this earth. And on this day, in the spring of 1834, the dark, smelly saloon held no small number of them.
One of them stood up and walked to the bar, stopping directly behind Jamie. “MacCallister! You’re wanted back in the States on a number of charges.”
“All those warrants have long been dismissed,” Jamie said, without turning around. “Do you be a wise man, now, and return to your seat. I wish no trouble.”
“Jamie Ian MacCallister,” the man persisted in a loud voice. “Surrender or die, you back-shootin’, murderin’ son of a bitch!”
Jamie turned around and hit the man. His big fist struck the man just above the left ear and it sounded like a melon hit with the flat side of a shovel. The man’s boots flew out from under him and he was sent crashing to the floor, about ten feet from where he had stood. He did not move.
Jamie’s swing had not seemed rushed, but Bowie knew he had just witnessed one of the most powerful blows he had ever seen. Blood was leaking from the prostrate man’s nose and mouth and left ear. Bowie had seen many a dead man in his wild and oftentimes violent life, and he knew he was looking at another.
An unshaven and loutish-looking man knelt down beside the man on the dirty floor. “You’ve killed him!” he said.
Jamie shrugged his heavy shoulders in complete indifference. “He threatened me,” was all he had to say.
“Do you know who this is?” the kneeling man asked.
“No, and I don’t care,” Jamie replied, taking another small sip of whiskey.
“This here’s Andy Saxon.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?”
The man rose to his boots and slowly made his way to the door. “You’re a dead man, Jamie MacCallister,” he said. “Andy’s kin will track you to hell for this.”
Jamie turned to face the man. “That’s been tried by better men than that scum on the floor. They’re dead and I’m still here.”
The man turned and ran from the saloon. He jumped into the saddle of a horse tied at the hitchrail and galloped off.
Bowie tossed some coins on the planks. “The service was lousy, the whiskey raw, and the clientele surly. But the show was excellent. Let’s go, boys. We have a meeting to attend.”
“What about that there feller on the floor?” the counterman cried.
“The way I see it,” Bowie said, “you have two options. You can leave him there until he petrifies, and then prop him in a corner as a conversation piece. Or you can bury him. My suggestion is the latter. In this climate he’s going to get very rank, very quickly.”
Bowie, Bonham, and Jamie walked out.
Twenty-five
Bowie studied Jamie as they walked. He could detect no change in the man’s demeanor. Jamie had just stretched a man out dead on the floor, either with a broken neck or a broken skull, and he had not changed expression yet. Fontaine had told Bowie that Jamie was very bright, and Bowie had realized almost instantly that he certainly was not dealing with some sort of dullard. Then he had to suppress a chuckle. When had he ever been terribly overcome with grief after a killing?
Now he knew why he had taken such an immediate cotton to the lad — they were both as much alike as two peas in a pod.
At the meeting, Fontaine and Smith were uncommonly blunt. “War is looming on the horizon, Jamie. I would guess no more than a year away. We need to know exactly where you stand.”
“I stand for Texas independence,” Jamie said without hesitation. “I thought I had made that clear.”
Fontaine nodded his head, as did Smith. “This is something we’re asking of all our people, Jamie. You have not been singled out for questioning.”
“You have your answer,” Bowie said shortly. “Now, what about Santa Anna?”
“Santa Anna is no friend of ours,” Fontaine said. “We were all wrong about him.”
They certainly were. By now it was clear that Santa Anna was a tyrant. He was rapidly becoming a dictator, with the Mexican congress snugly in his pocket. Santa Anna had made it abundantly clear that under no circumstances was Texas to be free of Mexico’s control.
But Santa Anna had made a few other mistakes along the way. One was allowing land to be more easily acquired, and two was modification of the laws allowing new settlers to come in, and come in they did, by the thousands.
Austin had smuggled a letter out of Mexico, the contents of which, had they been seen by Santa Anna, would have put Austin up in front of a firing squad. Austin had some pretty strong things to say about Santa Anna, and called for war.
“Our army?” Jamie questioned.
Smith smiled. “Loose and highly disorganized. It’s far too soon to call openly for volunteers. But they will be there when the time comes.”
“And I am to do what?” Jamie asked.
“Wait,” Bowie told him. “That’s all any of us can do.”
After Jamie had excused himself, saying he had some business to attend to, Fontaine looked at Bowie. “What do you think?”
“He’s solid as an oak.”
“Tell us what happened across the street,” Smith urged.
“He killed a man with one blow from his fist,” Bowie said simply. “Dispatching him without a change of expression.”
“Do you think he’s a killer without conscience?” Fontaine asked.
Bowie smiled. “No more than I am.”
* * *
Jamie rode toward the encampment of the Saxon gang with every intention of ending this years-long pursuit once and for all. But when he reached the camp, it was deserted. The coals were still hot and scraps of food and bits of ragged and discarded clothing were scattered about, but the Saxons and their followers were gone.