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  IT BEGAN IN 1817 IN THE WESTERN OHIO WILDERNESS...

  JAMIE IAN MacCALLISTER: As a boy of seven, he could only watch in horror as the Indian war party murdered his mother and father. Raised by the Shawnee chief who had taken him prisoner, he would escape four years later and find his way back to a white society unwilling to accept him.

  KATE OLMSTEAD: The prettiest girl in Western Kentucky, she fell in love with Jamie at first sight. They ran away together, heading west... but hard on their trail were vengeful men who had vowed to kill them both.

  MOSES WASHINGTON: A runaway slave who had found refuge for himself and his family in the Big Thicket country of East Texas, he risked his life for Jamie and Kate when they decided to settle down, raise a family and live out their lives ...

  ... BUT SAM HOUSTON, JIM BOWIE, DAVY CROCKETT AND ALL THE OTHER DEFENDERS OF THE ALAMO WOULD DRAMATICALLY AND FOREVER CHANGE THE LIFE OF JAMIE IAN MacCALLISTER!

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  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  EYES OF EAGLES

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

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  Table of Contents

  IT BEGAN IN 1817 IN THE WESTERN OHIO WILDERNESS...

  BOOK YOUR PLACE ON OUR WEBSITE AND MAKE THE READING CONNECTION!

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One - The Way West

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Part Two - Winds of Change

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Part Three - The Siege

  Twenty-nine - The First Day

  Thirty - The Second Day

  Thirty-one - The Third Day

  Thirty-two - The Fourth Day

  Thirty-three - The Fifty Day

  Thirty-four - The Six Day

  Thirty-five - The Seventh Day

  Thirty-six - The Eighth Day

  Thirty-seven - The Ninth Day

  Thirty-eight - The Tenth Day

  Thirty-nine - The Eleventh Day

  Forty - The Twelfth Day

  Forty-one - The Last Farewell Ninety Minutes of Glory

  Forty-two - Remember the Alamo

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Teaser chapter

  Notes

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 1993 William W. Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off. The WWJ steer head logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-3751-3

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-2567-0

  This book is dedicated with respect to Deana James, Dan Parkinson, and Martin Roberts, who had the patience to answer my hundreds of questions about Texas history.

  Prologue

  No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a

  piece of the continent.

  — John Donne

  It wasn’t much, but to Jamie Ian MacCallister the cabin was a castle. Actually, and Jamie knew it well, the cabin was better than most, for it had a real puncheon floor, leveled timber slabs, where many had only a dirt floor. His friend Robert lived in a cabin with a dirt floor, just about two miles down what passed as the road; two ruts that wound through dark woods.

  If it was a hard life, Ian didn’t know it. He’d been born right here in this snug cabin in the Western Ohio Wilderness. Oh, Jamie worked hard for a boy of almost seven, but it was important work. He knew that was true ’cause his pa and ma told him so. And now with the new baby in the cabin, his work was more important than ever, for his ma had never really gotten well after having the baby and Jamie was now doing a lot of the chores his ma used to do. She was just so weak all the time, and had to be abed for rest several times a day. But Jamie didn’t mind the extra work, for his pa said life was hard on the frontier.

  Jamie was making candles while his pa and ma were in the village, seeing the doctor. He’d gotten out the spun milkweed candlewicks and had threaded the candlewicks through the base holes and tied a knot in each, then fastened the tops to a stick. Carefully, Jamie got the pot of melted fat from the fire and poured it into the tapered molds, then sat back while it hardened. He tried to remember what else he was supposed to do. Oh, yes. Give the beans in the pot a stir and put out the potatoes for baking in the ashes. Was that all? The boy pondered for a moment. He thought it was.

  Then he heard the sounds of the wagon coming slowly up the rutted road and he ran to the windows and opened the inner plank shutters. Light was fading fast as the day was coming to a close. His ma and pa were home. Even though his pa called him his little man, it got kinda lonesome with everyone gone.

  His ma and pa were laughing softly, so everything must have gone well at the doctor’s cabin. Jamie opened the door and caught a glimpse of something moving at the edge of the timber. Deer probably, he thought, and closed the door as his parents stepped into the cabin.

  The sleeping baby was placed in the cradle and Jamie’s ma turned and smiled at him and Jamie returned the smile. She sure was pretty, and his pa was a big handsome man. Both of them blond and naturally fair, although the sun had turned their skin brown from being outside so much.

  “We have a birthday boy somewhere around here,” his pa said, unabl
e to hide his grin. “Where do you reckon he is, Priscilla?”

  “Why, bless me, Ian,” Jamie’s ma said, “I just don’t know. He might be hiding under the table. Let’s ask this stranger to look.”

  “Aw, Ma!” Jamie said. He would be seven come the next day, and his parents always gave him some store-bought candy or a little foofaraw for his birthday.

  “Here he is!” Jamie’s pa said, grabbing Jamie and holding him out in his strong hands. “He’s gotten so big I didn’t know him right off.” He set Jamie down on the floor and looked around the cabin. “You done real good, son,” he said seriously. “Swept the place clean and made candles and something sure smells good in the pot yonder.”

  “Beans, Pa,” Jamie said.

  “And naturally you tipped over the honey pot and added a bit, too, didn’t you?” his ma asked with a smile.

  “Well...” the boy ducked his head to hide his dimpled smile.

  Ian ruffled his son’s hair. “That’s all right, son. I like ’em sweetened a bit myself.”

  “I’ll set the table while you see to the team, Ian,” Priscilla said. “Help me, Jamie. The ride has tired me.”

  Ian stepped outside and closed the door. As Jamie was reaching for the bowls, he thought he heard a cry, a noise of some sort, coming from the outside. He paused, listening. But it was not repeated. He shook his head and began setting the table as his ma gave the beans a last stir. Jamie whirled around and dropped the bowls as the cabin door was slammed open. Painted Indians filled the cabin, one of them holding a bloody war club. Priscilla screamed and ran for the cradle. Before she could reach it, a warrior swung his war club and her head was split open, her skull smashed. She fell to the floor. Jamie leaped for his ma and his own head exploded in pain, sending him spinning into darkness, a single cry on his lips.

  Jamie did not see his mother scalped. He did not see one Shawnee warrior pick up the baby and smash its brains out against the stone of the fireplace and then hurl the little lifeless body into the fire. Jamie lay on the floor, blood pouring from his head, staining the freshly swept and mopped floor of the cabin.

  One big Shawnee, the leader of this raiding party, squatted down beside Jamie. He turned the boy over and put his hand on Jamie’s chest. The heartbeat was strong and steady. The warrior slung Jamie over one shoulder and walked out through the smashed door into the night.

  He ordered the cabin burned.

  * * *

  Jamie awakened several times during the night. He always wakened to pain. He knew he was being carried, passed from one Indian to another as they ran through the forest. He did not think they ever stopped for rest. The moon was full and gave ample light as long as it lasted but Jamie could recognize nothing familiar. Once he awakened as they crossed a river. He had no clear idea what river. Once he tried to fight the Indians. He was beaten and his wrists and ankles bound tightly. They soon became numb and Jamie wondered if he was going to be tortured before they killed him. He’d heard men talk about the terrible things Indians did to white captives. He wondered if his mother had survived. He felt she had not, for he had seen the awful blow delivered to her head. His father? No, he’d seen the blond scalp dangling from the big warrior’s club. So his family was dead. Jamie began to cry. That got him another beating until he stopped sobbing.

  Once they stopped, a young Indian — Jamie felt he couldn’t be more than a boy — whispered to him. “You must be brave. You must be strong. If you are not, they will kill you. Be brave and be silent. We have a long way to go.” The young Indian slipped away into the darkness. He smelled of sweat and woodsmoke. And blood.

  Jamie nodded his head and tried to rest. His bound hands and feet hurt so bad he had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out from the pain. But he made not a sound. He was cold, but tried not to shiver. He had to be brave. He had to be. He knew his life depended on it.

  The boy tried hard not to think of his parents, and his baby sister. He fought hard to put them out of his mind. Young, he was. But he was born on the frontier, and was a realist for his age. He knew he was alone now. If he was to survive, he had to depend on his wits. The young Indian had seemed friendly enough, but his pa had always said that Indians were notional folks. They didn’t think like white people. So Jamie — seven years old today — lying on the cold ground in a part of the country he had never seen before, made up his mind. Where his captors were concerned, he would be like a leaf: whichever way the wind blew, that’s how he’d go.

  He just couldn’t see any other way. At least for the moment. But one thing he did know for a certainty. If the savages didn’t kill him, he would escape. He didn’t know how, he just knew he would. Someday. Or his name wasn’t Jamie Ian MacCallister.

  Part One

  The Way West

  ’Tis grand! ’Tis solemn!

  ’Tis an education of itself to look upon!

  — James Fenimore Cooper

  One

  They traveled for three days and nights, first on foot, then in canoes on a big river. When they finally paddled their canoes toward shore, the boy was so lost and so tired and so sore he couldn’t tell up from down.

  His hands and feet were untied, but his feet were so numb he could not walk. The Shawnee who had taken him picked him up and threw him onto the bank. Then the whole band turned their backs to him and walked into the village amid shouts of greeting from the others.

  The Indian boy knelt down beside Jamie. “I am called Little Wolf,” he said in broken English. “You must rub your ankles and wrists to get the blood flowing. And you must not try to run away. This is a test. The first of many. If you cause trouble, Tall Bull will kill you.”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  Little Wolf smiled. “Don’t be fooled. I am not helping you. But you are a boy and if you live, you will be a warrior. I heard Tall Bull say this from his own mouth.”

  Jamie thought about that for a second or two. Then fierce pain hit him hard as the feeling began returning to his feet and hands. He did not make a sound. Little Wolf watched this and was pleased. Jamie rubbed his ankles harder and more pain nearly put him out.

  “You see!” the Indian said, as others gathered around. “You have pain, yet you do not cry out. You will be a warrior someday. Now get on your feet and walk to the village. Stay to one side and behind me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Little Wolf struck him across the face with a stick. Jamie felt the warm trickle of blood on his skin.

  “Do not ask questions,” Little Wolf said, a mean look in his eyes. “Not yet. Learn this now. Do as you are told when you are told to do it. You will endure many beatings before the testing is over. Now do as I told you!”

  As they walked from the river, Jamie limping badly on his swollen feet, he looked at the twin lines of Indians up ahead of him, mostly women and young boys and girls. They all had sticks in their hands and were waving them, shouting at Jamie. Jamie did not have to understand the Shawnee language to know the shouts were strong insults upon him. He also knew from listening to adults talk what was about to happen to him. The Shawnees made captives run through a long and cruel gauntlet. And sometimes people did not live through the double line of tormentors. Jamie was determined that he would. He began stamping his feet on the ground and rubbing his wrists harder to hasten the flow of blood to his feet and hands.

  Little Wolf turned and his smile was hard. “Now we will see how brave you are, White Hair.”

  “Braver than you think.” Jamie met the older and taller boy’s eyes. “I bet I knock some of them to the ground.”

  “Oh?” Little Wolf said. “And when, or if, you are able to do that, you might die.”

  “I’ll take that chance.” Jamie looked deep into the Indian’s eyes, and with a start realized Little Wolfs eyes were green!

  “What are you staring at, White Hair?”

  “Your eyes.”

  “What about my eyes?”

  “They’re green. And your hair is br
own. You’re white!”

  Little Wolf knocked him down with his club. “I am Shawnee.”

  Jamie got up with blood running down from the gash on his forehead and mad enough to spit. He tackled the bigger boy and they rolled on the ground. The older men of the village ran to the kicking and punching boys and pointed and laughed. But they made no move to separate them. If the boy with white hair bested Little Wolf, so be it.

  Jamie took a wild swing and his hard little fist landed solidly on Little Wolf’s nose. The blood spurted and Little Wolf jumped back, astonishment and pain mirrored on his face. He raised his club to strike Jamie, and Tall Bull jerked it from his hand.

  “No!” Tall Bull ordered. “Wrestle him. Tell him if he can best you, he is spared the gauntlet.”

  Little Wolf didn’t like it, but he told Jamie his father’s orders, adding, “I think I will kill you this day, White Hair.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jamie told him, and then hit Little Wolf as hard as he could, right on the mouth.

  Jamie didn’t know anything about Indian wrestling, but he did know a little something about fistfighting, for his father had seen to that.

  Little Wolf went down hard, landing on his butt. His lips were red with blood. He became furious when some of the young girls giggled at him. He sprang to his feet and tried to grab Jamie. But the seven-year-old twisted away and kicked out with one shoe, the hard leather catching Little Wolf on the knee. The Indian boy gasped with pain and Jamie set himself and swung. The blow struck Little Wolf on the side of his neck and dropped him like a stone. Jamie had lucked out and quite by accident struck the Indian boy in just the right spot. Little Wolf was unable to get up.

  “Enough!” Tall Bull said, holding up his hand. He knelt down beside his adopted son just as Little Wolf was beginning to come around from the nerve-numbing blow. Tall Bull was a brave warrior and a respected subchief of this particular band of Shawnees, but he was also very superstitious. He cut his eyes to the white-haired boy. He knew he should kill the captive immediately. There was open defiance in the boy’s eyes. But still he held back. It was rare that Little Wolf ever lost in any contest. He had never lost to a person of Jamie’s age and size. He was confused.