Duel at Low Hawk

by Charles G. West

  A day and a half after leaving Douglas Fannin’s store in Oswego, John came to the mining settlement proclaiming itself to be Joplin. As he walked Cousin slowly through the camp, he was conscious of the stares of the occasional miner, receiving a nod from one or two, as they looked upon another suspicious stranger. Had he known the circumstances that prompted the cool reception, he would have understood the absence of a friendly greeting.

  The trail so easily followed from Oswego was now obliterated among the many tracks in the mining camp, so he guided Cousin toward the one larger structure near the center of the community. It was typical, he thought, that the one commercial business in the entire camp was a saloon. Dropping Cousin’s reins loosely across the hitching post, he stepped up on the low stoop and went inside.

  Coming in from the bright sunlight, he had to pause inside the door for a few moments, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the bar. After a brief period, he made out the form of the bartender sitting in a chair at the far end of the bar. There was no one else in the room.

  “What’ll it be, mister?” Barney Pollard uttered unenthusiastically while getting up from his chair.

  “I reckon I could use a glass of beer,” John allowed, pointing to a large wooden keg behind the bar.

  Barney took a glass from the shelf behind him, blew the dust out of it, and filled it from the tap. “We’re gettin’ to be a regular tourist stop,” he said when he set the glass on the bar. “You’re the second stranger we’ve had in two days. Make that three if you count the Injun girl.”

  “Is that a fact?” John replied. “It just happens I’m lookin’ for a man and an Indian girl.”

  Barney’s eyebrows immediately lowered into a frown. “I hope to hell they ain’t friends of yours,” he said.

  “Hardly,” John said.

  “Good,” Barney came back before John had a chance to explain, “ ’cause you’re too damn big to throw outta here.”

  “This man,” John continued, “was he a half-breed? Name of Boot Stoner?”

  “That’s the one, all right. As mean a son of a bitch as I’ve ever seen. He hit this place hard, I’m tellin’ you.”

  “What happened here?”

  Barney jerked his head back as if recoiling. “He shot a whore, he did.” Nodding his head up and down vigorously for emphasis, he added, “The only whore in this camp.” Pausing to see if John appreciated the seriousness of that, he then asked, “Why are you lookin’ for him? Are you a lawman?”

  “I’m a deputy marshal outta Fort Smith. He’s left a string of murders across Oklahoma and Kansas, as well as one family in Arkansas.”

  “Saints preserve us!” Barney gasped. “I reckon we was lucky he didn’t shoot nobody but Rose.”

  “Don’t sound like Rose was too lucky,” John said dryly. “Don’t you have any law in these parts?”

  “Oh, we sent for the sheriff over in town—that’s about a mile away. He came over and stood around a while before he said the half-breed was too long gone. There wasn’t much he could do about it.”

  John gave that a moment’s thought. “How long has Stoner been gone?”

  “Since last evenin’.”

  “Do you know which way he headed?”

  “Sure,” Barney replied. “He took off through the south part of the camp. If we go outside, I can show you exactly.”

  “Much obliged,” John said, and swallowed the last gulp of beer. He started toward the door with Barney right behind him. Opening the door and squinting into the bright sunlight, he couldn’t help but remark, “You know, if you’da built some windows in this place, a man wouldn’t go blind goin’ in and out.”

  “I reckon,” Barney said. “I didn’t build the place. It started out as a storeroom. ’Course most of my customers is half blind by the time they walk outta here anyway.”

  Outside, Barney pointed out the path Boot took when he galloped away. John thanked him and climbed aboard Cousin. As he was riding away, Barney called after him. “That son of a bitch stole money from me, too. Maybe if you catch him, you could get it back for me.”

  “Maybe,” John replied without turning to look at the bartender.

  He was anxious to pick up Stoner’s trail, knowing now that he was less than a full day behind. It took some time, however, to pick out the tracks he searched for among the many around the camp. Before, he could distinguish the mule prints from the horses’, making the trail easier to follow. Unfortunately, there were as many mule tracks around the mining camp as horses’, maybe more. Consequently, he followed a couple of false trails before settling on the one he felt certain was that of Boot Stoner, the girl, Lilly, and their two pack mules. He had closed the gap between himself and the bloodthirsty outlaw. Of that, he was certain, but there was still a lot of ground to make up.

  Boot Stoner woke up hungry and chilly. The fire had died out to nothing more than a few live coals. His immediate reaction was anger, and he rolled over on his side, intending to give the slumbering Creek girl a kick. Lilly was not there. He assumed that she had retreated to the bushes to relieve herself. Angry that she had not built up the fire before tending to her physical needs, he yelled out for her. “Lilly! Get your lazy ass back here and make me some coffee!” Expecting an immediate rustle of bushes signaling the girl’s response to his command, he began to fume over her disobedience. Throwing his blanket aside, he stormed up from his bed with the intention of administering the punishment she deserved.

  Stalking toward the path she had chosen the night before to answer nature’s call, he yelled out her name again. Still there was no answer. After a few moments more of silence, the fact that she might have fled occurred to him. Beyond anger, he stamped about in the brush, searching, knowing as each second passed that the girl was not there. She was gone! The thought infuriated him so that her recapture dominated all other thoughts. Then another thought occurred that caused him to panic. The horses! He turned around and ran back to the stream where the horses were hobbled. Much to his immediate relief, his horse was still grazing near the water’s edge. Across the stream, the two mules were contentedly munching on fresh shoots of spring grass, but Lilly’s horse was gone.

  “Damn mules!” he swore. He picked up a stone and threw it at the nearest mule, having to vent his anger on something. The unsuspecting animal jerked sideways when the stone struck its flank and moved a few yards away before resuming its grazing. “You think you can run from me?” he roared, looking at the mule, but directing his wrath toward the missing Indian girl. Searching along the stream bank then, he found tracks pointing south.

  Forgoing breakfast, he rolled up his blanket and picked up his saddle, furious in his eagerness to pick up Lilly’s trail. When he reached up to take the horse by the bridle, there was no bridle. Confused at first, for although the horses were hobbled, he had left the bridles on, his anger now reached the point of rage. “That Creek bitch!” he cursed. “She’s as good as dead.” Fuming and cursing, for he assumed Lilly had taken the bridle with her, he took a length of rope and fashioned an Indian bridle with two half hitches in the middle, looped around the horse’s lower jaw. The horse was not pleased with the strange rope around its jaw, and tossed its head repeatedly in protest. Boot responded with a sharp crack across the animal’s face with his rifle barrel. The horse, subdued for the moment, allowed Boot to throw the saddle on.

  In the saddle then, Boot kicked the horse in the flanks and jerked on the rope reins. Finding the rope an irritation, the horse renewed its protest, proceeding to wheel around and around in a circle when Boot attempted to guide it with a pull in one direction. After a furious battle between man and horse, and a severe beating with a tree limb, the horse finally accepted its new bridle. Under way at last, Boot set out after Lilly nearly blind with rage. Crossing the stream some fifty yards south of the camp, he failed to spot the bridle hanging from the lower branch of a sweet gum tree. As before, the mules tagged along behind until Boot turned in the saddle and fired severa
l pistol shots at them. Neither mule was hit, but they wisely dropped back, deeming it sensible to trail the irate half-breed from a greater distance.

  Rugged and foreboding, the Boston Mountains loomed up before the desperate Indian girl. A land of steep slopes and deep river valleys, rocky cliffs and forests thick with red oak and hickory, as well as the ever-present pine, her mountains were the highest of the Ozark Plateau. Birthplace of the White and Buffalo Rivers, the harsh area had served as hideout for more than one gang of bushwhackers and rebel guerrilla bands during the War Between the States.

  Nearing exhaustion, Lilly pushed her weary horse onward. She would not permit the horse to rest until she was safely into the slopes at the base of the mountains. Riding without pause throughout the night, and now until dusk of the following day, she, like her mount, was in dire need of food, water, and rest. On foot now, she led the drained animal up into a ravine where a trickle of water from an underground spring bubbled up between the roots of a large oak tree. This would have to do until her horse had rested enough to carry her higher up into the mountains.

  Using her knife, she carved a hole in the earth around the roots of the oak to form a small basin for her horse to drink. After pulling the saddle off, she used the saddle blanket to wipe some of the sweat from the horse’s back while the grateful animal drank from the basin. Unable to keep her mind from the image of the cruel face of Boot Stoner, she could not resist the constant urge to look over her shoulder, expecting the savage half-breed to suddenly appear. Although her rational mind told her that it was unlikely, if not impossible, for Boot to have caught up to her, she feared he was possessed of such evil medicine that he could summon dark spirits to help him. With thoughts like these to haunt her, she resolved to move farther into the mountains as soon as her horse was rested. As for herself, she would remain vigilant, reserving her time to rest until after she had found a place she felt was safe. She knew he was set upon returningto the Nations, and when she first fled from her captor, she had hoped that he would not feel it worth his time to follow her. Deep inside, however, she feared he would come after her, if only to kill her.

  Not willing to risk a fire, for fear the smoke might be spotted, she made a meal of some dried meat taken from Fannin’s store. There seemed to be an abundance of small game in the hills about her, so she was confident she would be able to find food once she found a safe place to hide. She had her flint and steel to make a fire, and she could fashion a snare from the short length of rope on her saddle. Fighting the almost overpowering urge to close her eyes for a few minutes’ rest, she ate her beef strips while constantly watching her back trail.

  As soon as she felt her horse was rested, she left the ravine and pushed on, following a narrow valley that appeared to lead deeper into the towering mountains. After riding for approximately two hours, she found that the valley broadened into a wide meadow leading up to a river that flowed through the mountains. The other side of the river was bordered by lofty cliffs of limestone that reached straight up for hundreds of feet.

  Pausing at the edge of the river to let her horse drink from the clear, cool water, she peered ahead, as far down the river as she could see. The setting sun was now at her back as her eyes followed the river’s course to the east. Soon it would be dark. Again, unable to resist the urge, she looked back along the way she had come, but there was no sign that anyone other than herself was in the valley. It was time to think about making camp for the night.

  Thinking the riverbank was too exposed, even at night, she followed the river farther east until she came to a creek. With darkness almost upon her, she followed the creek back into the hardwood forest for several hundred feet before selecting her campsite. After hobbling the horse by the creek, she gathered enough dead limbs to build a small fire. By the time the flames were healthy, darkness had descended upon the quiet watercourse, draping a deep black shroud around the tiny glow of her fire. Finally, too weary to worry about Boot Stoner for the moment, she finished the rest of the dried beef and was sound asleep within seconds.

  Burley Chase sat down and slid to the bottom of the steep slope on his behind. Upon reaching the bottom of the wooded draw, he got to his feet and, with one casual swipe of his hand, brushed the dead leaves from his seat. All the while, his eyes searched the faint trail that had led him down the mountainside to the creek. She was a fine-looking doe. Burley had spotted the four deer when they began to move just after first light. He hadn’t approached quietly enough, so they scattered when they heard him in the trees above them. He wasn’t particularly proud of that, but he had his mind set on venison, so he gave chase. Forgetting the others, Burley went after the doe. She looked fat and sassy.

  She had run about fifty yards along the slope before stopping to see if anything was after her. Burley almost got within range to take a shot at her, but she turned and descended the steep slope to the creek bottom. He had no choice but to try again. He could have taken a long shot, but cartridges were precious, and hard to come by. He could not afford to waste them. “I’m gettin’ too damn old to run a damn deer down,” he complained as he crept along the creek bank.

  “I know you’re in here, darlin’,” he murmured. “I can feel you.” Carefully placing one foot at a time, he inched his way closer to a thicket of laurel. Suddenly he saw slight movement of the branches on the other side of the creek. Instantly he dropped to one knee, thinking he had stumbled upon one of the other deer, for he was certain the doe had not crossed over. Peering intently at the thicket, he decided to forget the doe and take the closer shot. There was just a brief glimpse of brown hide showing through the leaves, and he figured the shot would not be there for long. He raised his carbine and sighted on the target. Wish I could see a little more of the damn thing, he thought, so I’d know whether I’m shooting the ass end or the head. As his finger poised to squeeze the trigger, the bushes parted a little and a head pushed through. But instead of a deer, it was a horse’s head.

  Burley froze, afraid to move. Startled to find a horse in this part of the mountains, his initial thought was that it was ridden by a lawman, possibly looking for him. After a few moments stalled by indecision, he deemed it in his best interest to immediately withdraw. Stepping carefully and quietly, skills acquired out of necessity to survive in this mountain wilderness, he made his way back up through the hardwood forest to a sandstone ledge from which he could watch the creek below him. He decided it best to get a look at the intruder to see if, in fact, there was any threat to him.

  It had been years since he had taken refuge in these mountains, and Burley had lost count of the seasons that had passed. The rest of his gang of bushwhackers had long since returned to their homes after the war, seeking amnesty, or had moved west. A few had been caught by the federals while trying to buy supplies in the settlements. Burley had chosen to live off the land. He was an outlaw. Of that there was no denial. But he had not started out that way. Joining a group of guerrillas led by Jack Wheeler, Burley, like most of the others, had sought to punish the Yankee troops who invaded his homeland. As the war wound down, however, the gang turned toward attacks on civilian targets with no military significance. It had become a matter of survival, and the raids became more and more justifiable in their minds. Before they were finally dispersed, Bloody Jack Wheeler’s name became synonymous with bushwhacker and was despised by Reb and Yankee alike. Two months after Lee’s surrender, Bloody Jack was shot in the head by a farmer who caught him in his barn stealing chickens. It was a somewhat less than glorious demise for a group of men claiming to proudly fight for the Confederacy.

  Burley figured his family and friends had long since given him up for dead, and that was the way he wanted it. Fearing a prison cell, he preferred to live out his years here in the mountains. This intruder today was not the first to venture into this wilderness. There had been others, hunters and trappers, most just passing through. Burley had managed to stay out of sight until they had gone. And none had stumbled upon his cave u
nder the waterfall. But he had almost blundered into this situation today, and at this point, he didn’t know if it was one man or a posse. So he waited and watched.

  The sun made its initial appearance for the day before Burley detected any further movement in the trees by the creek. Minutes after the morning sunlight penetrated the leaves of the hickory and oak, a person appeared briefly by the creek bank. “Well, I’ll swear . . .” Burley muttered. It looked like a woman. Moments later, he changed his mind. “A girl,” he said to himself. “An Injun girl.” Peering as hard as he could in an effort to see through the trees, he looked for her companion. Surely she was not alone up here in the mountains. Try as he might, however, he could not see anyone else.

  Deciding that even if there was someone with her, they did not pose any threat to him, he determined to take a closer look. Backing down from the ledge, he worked his way across the slope until he found a place where he could get a broader look at the creek bank. Parting the juniper leaves before him, he peered through to discover a scene he found most surprising. There was no one with her, just one young girl with one horse, and she looked to be trying to rig a snare by the creek bank. I’m damned if I know what she thinks she’ll catch with that, he thought, shaking his head in disbelief. Well, ain’t none of my affair, he thought, and prepared to retreat to his cave, the deer hunt having been effectively canceled for the morning.

  He picked up his carbine and took a step backward, preparing to leave, but something about the girl made him hesitate. What in the world is an Indian girl doing here in the Boston Mountains, he wondered, by herself, this far from the Nations, where she most likely came from? She looked to be about the age of his daughter when he had left wife and family to join Bloody Jack Wheeler. That thought proceeded to tug at his conscience a bit as he watched Lilly’s wasted efforts with her snare. Annie, his daughter, used to catch rabbits with a snare. He had a sudden attack of melancholy when he thought about how long it had been since he had seen her. “Damned old fool,” he muttered. “I’m probably gonna regret this.” He started to make his way down toward the creek.