Dreams of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page B

to think about.”
    Sam and Jamie emptied eight rifles into the rocks as fast as they could pull their triggers, and this time they drew blood. A man gave out a terrible shout of pain, which was followed by horrible choking sounds, then silence.
    â€œYou sorry sons!” the voice shouted again. “You’ve kilt my partner.”
    â€œGood!” Sam yelled.
    Jamie looked at him and grinned. It had taken Sam awhile to learn about law and order in the wilderness, but once he caught on, the lesson stayed with him.
    â€œThat ball took half his head off!” the indignant brigand yelled.
    Jamie and Sam remained silent. They had a small spring behind them in the rock. Not enough water for a sustained standoff but enough to get them by for a day or two. However, Jamie had no intention of letting this continue for a day or two. Sam, looking at the set of Jamie’s jaw, could read that in his face. Jamie’s eyes were bleak and cold, the pale blue softness replaced by a terrible hard light. Jamie would befriend anyone who needed help, but cross him, and he would become a deadly foe.
    Suddenly, there came a shout from the rocks. “We’ll meet again, boys! No man crosses Pete Thompson and lives long to boast about it.”
    â€œWho is Pete Thompson?” Sam asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Jamie replied. “But he’s a fool, telling us his name after threatening to steal our mules.”
    Seconds after the sound of the brigands’ leaving reached them, Jamie was out of the rocks and moving toward the rocks just below them. He stood for a moment over the body of the dead man. Thompson had been right: the ball had made a mess of the man’s head.
    â€œYou know him?” Sam asked.
    Jamie shook his head. “No. Ground’s too hard to dig here. Let’s gather up some rocks and cover him best we can. Then we’ll move on.”
    Sam had long grown accustomed to Jamie’s coldness when it came to dealing with outlaws, so the suggestion did not shock him as it would have years back. Sam went through the man’s pockets and found only a few coins; no clue as to who he might have been. After covering the outlaw with rocks, Jamie went to retrieve the mules, and Sam Montgomery stood for a moment over the mound of rocks, battered hat in hand. He knew he should say something over the remains, but the words just would not come to him. He finally shook his head and walked back to Jamie and the mules. Jamie just looked at him and said nothing. Five minutes later, they were on the trail, heading east toward Bent’s Fort.
    * * *
    Jamie asked around at the fort, but no one there had ever heard of anyone called Pete Thompson.
    â€œCountry’s fillin’ up,” a trapper said. “A body can’t ride a whole week without seein’ some settlers tryin’ to scratch out a crop somewheres. But with the good comes the bad. I’ll shore pass the word ’bout Thompson. I get him in gunsights, that’ll be the end of Pete Thompson. We don’t need his kind out here.”
    â€œI got a harpsichord in the back,” Jamie was told when he placed his order for a piano. “Been here nigh on five years. Man ordered it and never come back to get it. I guess his horse throwed him or a bear grabbed him or a rattlesnake struck him or the Injuns got him. I can make you a real deal on it.”
    â€œI’ll take it,” Jamie said quickly, without even inquiring as to the price.
    A trapper standing nearby said, “You cain’t tote no harpsichord acrost country on a mule, son. Thar wouldn’t be nothin’ left of it time you got where you was goin’.”
    â€œWho owns that piece of a wagon out back?” Sam asked.
    â€œWhy . . . nobody,” the counterman said. “You want it, take it.”
    And thus began the legend of the harpsichord. Years later, long after Andrew became one of the young country’s best loved