Hawk Eyes

by David Althouse

  The last thing that Youngbird told me was that he would be seein’ me soon, but he didn’t tell me exactly how soon. He insisted that he was gonna talk me into playin’ in one of those famous Cherokee stickball games that were held from time-to-time. He said that the games were usually played in a vast meadow some four miles south of Tahlequah. I’d heard ‘bout them Cherokee stickball games, and I knew that they could be rough affairs. Folks had gotten their heads bashed in playin’ stickball with Cherokees. Them Cherokees was damn good folks, and right kindly most of the time, but them Cherokee men took their game of stickball a damn sight serious. I’d also been told that them Cherokees had to sneak around the backs of the church missionaries when they decided to hold a game, as them preachers didn’t usually hold the usually bloody affair in high regard.

  Before the sun was barely above the eastern horizon, I was makin’ a beeline to Sugar Mountain country.

  I covered the thirteen or so miles to the Coulters’ at a decent clip. The Coulter cabin set back in amongst a good bunch of massive oaks and so there was cool shade all around. Jim Coulter was the man of the place, and he was the one what answered the door. He was gray atop the head, with just a smidgen of wiry gray whiskers above his top lip and at the end of his chin. I never knew many Cherokee folks to sport thick mustaches or beards. I explained to Coulter that I’d just arrived in the country and that Youngbird had sent me to Sugar Mountain. Right ‘bout then I whipped out my totem and handed it to Coulter.

  Coulter looked the totem over, and he was grinnin’ as he did so. “So, you are a good friend of the Choctaws, and you made a good Yankee kill in Fort Smith, eh? And now the Federals are on your tail.”

  Coulter kept right on decipherin’ through them Cherokee figures and symbols on the totem as only a knowledgeable Cherokee could.

  Right then I knew that the words on the totem were tellin’ the whole story to Coulter. I was beginnin’ to have a good dose of respect for the Cherokee’s totem.

  The old man gave the totem a good once over, a grin on his face all the while. “Son, it looks like you got yourself in a good fix. But I’m glad you did. It was for a good cause.”

  Just ‘bout then, I noticed that Coulter was the father of three very beautiful daughters. They all three were at work behind his cabin, knockin’ the dust out of a couple of rugs, and generally attendin’ to various chores. When old Coulter told me I would be stayin’ with ’em for a few days before I had to leave, I was some relieved. I didn’t want to leave this particular piece of the country too quick, what with three very pretty young ladies who would be in close proximity to me the entire time. It was beginnin’ to look like Sugar Mountain was rightly named for sure, and I was wantin’ to see just how sweet the country hereabouts could get.

  Of a sudden, the three girls noticed me standin’ there talkin’ to their pa, and they all commenced to gigglin’ and carryin’ on. Then they all disappeared. Pretty soon, Coulter asked me to come in the house for grub.

  When we got inside, he gave the totem to his wife and she started decipherin’ the language on it. She read the very top of the totem and then she looked over at me. “No woman deserves to be slapped around by a brute – not even your girl in Fort Smith.” Of course, she was referrin’ to Isabelle.

  She read on a little farther with great interest and then a gleam came to her eyes. “So it’s you we can thank for the great raid on the Yankee supply wagon? You helped make a great kill.”

  When she had finished readin’ the entire totem, she came over to me and gave me the damnedest hug and kiss you ever did see.

  She led me over to the dinner table and I seen that the daughters had made their way inside the cabin. Of a sudden, I was wishin’ that I could get some huggin’ and kissin’ from them three instead of their mama. But I wasn’t in Cherokee country for any of that kind of monkey business. I was here on the business of eludin’ Federals. And that’s just what I aimed to do.

  I stayed with the Coulters for two days. When we knew for sure that the country thereabouts was free of strangers, I tried as much as possible to help ’em out with their daily chores outside. Winter was just around the corner so there was plenty of wood to cut and split. In two days of sneakin’ looks at those pretty, gigglin’ daughters, and receivin’ the compliments of the missus, I also managed to chop, split, and put away ‘bout eight ricks of good oak firewood.

  My next destination was to Mr. Vann’s spread ’bout four miles straight due east of Tahlequah. Just like ol’ man Coulter a few days earlier, Vann inspected the leather totem from side-to-side and top to bottom. In no time at all he had the complete story of my recent past, from the shootin’ of Pig Eyes in Fort Smith, to my stay with the Coulters, and now my stay with him.

  Vann, a tall beanpole of a man who packed 1851 Navy Colts on each side, had no immediate family. He looked to be ’bout sixty-five, but he still sported long black braids from under a wide black sombrero. Vann dealt in horses, and had a corral of good lookin’ stock near his cabin. Folks made a steady trek to his spread all the time to horse trade. Because there was almost always someone comin’ down the trail to talk horse dickerin’ with Vann, we decided it was best that I would pretty much stay inside the cabin.

  One day whilst I was inside the cabin, I overheard Vann talkin’ to a prospective horse buyer outside. The feller, a Cherokee friend of Vann’s, asked if he could buy my horse, Red. We’d throwed Red in the corral with his sellin’ and tradin’ stock so it was natural that someone would think that he was available for sale or trade. Vann was adamant that Red wasn’t for sale. The talk ‘bout Red went on for quite a spell, but Vann kept up his position, never lettin’ on that the real reason he couldn’t sell Red was because he belonged to me, a man on the run and who was at that very minute inside Vann’s cabin just a few feet away. Vann finally convinced the feller that he was keepin’ Red for breedin’ purposes. Vann’s friend saw the wisdom in that and then let the matter rest.

  That night, I was kiddin’ Vann ’bout this episode. “Vann, why didn’t you come up with a reason to come inside the cabin just so you could ask me if I wanted to sell Red? Maybe we could’ve fetched a good price for him!”

  Of course, anyone who knew me in those days could tell you that an army would play hell pryin’ me loose of that fine horse.

  The ol’ Cherokee took off his big sombrero then looked me straight in the eye. “In the morning you head out before daylight. Your destination is Sparrow Hawk Mountain some ten miles to the north and east of Tahlequah. In the morning I will give you the trail directions and the name of your next and last contact. I heard from a friend of mine today that there are Federals in the Cherokee Nation who are asking questions about you. You cannot get rid of that horse, for he’s your only chance of a clean escape from the Federals who are for sure on your trail.”

  Vann placed the leather totem on a table next to the light of a lantern. He then reached over to a nearby desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of tattoo ink. He spent the next hour writin’ on the leather in the mysterious language of Sequoyah and the Cherokees. I looked at those funny lookin’ symbols and knew that if I couldn’t make sense of ’em, then no flat-headed Yankees could either.

  At the time, I didn’t understand just exactly what he meant ‘bout Red bein’ my only chance for escape. But I would understand it, and understand it right soon.

  By late afternoon of the next day, I found myself in the vicinity of Sparrow Hawk Mountain. In no time, I’d wound myself through the trails Vann had told me ’bout the night before and had made my way to the home of my last contact. I was to spend a little time with the Fields family, a Mr. Robert Fields bein’ the head honcho of the spread.

  I came down the lane to his big home and found the old Cherokee brushin’ down a couple of horses what had just been ridden hard. We exchanged the pleasantries and then I handed him my leather totem. He took a quick look at the totem and did not hesitate one second before he instructed me to come inside. The simple fact
I was carryin’ a totem was all he needed to know that I was there on important business.

  Fields had himself a sizable family, for sure. His wife, Mae, was another one of them beautiful Cherokee women I was startin’ to grow accustomed to in the Cherokee Nation. She had sharp features, as well as the most beautiful dark eyes and coal-black hair. He also had him a pert young daughter named Fawn who took a lot after her mama in looks. But I knew I’d best be on good behavior around her when I met Mr. Fields’ three, big, strappin’ sons – Robert, Jr., Elijah, and Garrison.

  The first thing Mr. Fields did after makin’ sure I was full of coffee and grub was to sit down and give my leather totem a once over. He took it over to a corner of the livin’ room and, with the help of his glass spectacles and a lantern light, deciphered it from top to bottom. He commenced to tellin’ his family the details of what brung me to ’em. And the more he told ’em the harder they listened. I felt as if the three sons were lookin’ at me in admiration, what with their eyes bein’ all big and round like silver dollars. Of course, I didn’t really feel like I needed admiration. All I’d done was kill a Federal officer and then haul my ass hell for leather over to the Indian Nations.

  The Fields home was a real beauty. A two-story cedar log house served as their hacienda, and it looked solidly built throughout. The wood floors were strong and well-fitted board-by-board, and the rooms were some of the biggest I’d ever seen. The rooms were fitted with hand-made wooden doors – big and strong, each of ’em. Lookin’ over the place, I came to get the feelin’ that Mr. Fields was a man who appreciated things built to last.

  Fields showed me to the room where I was to bed down for the night. He told me that a plan had been conjured that was goin’ to help me get free of these Federals for a long time, and that he would tell me ‘bout the scheme in the mornin’. The last thing I heard as I fell off to sleep was one of the Fields boys tendin’ to the horses out to the barn.

  I awoke the next mornin’ and took a look out the window to the pen where Red was corralled the night before. Only thing was, Red weren’t there! Somethin’ wasn’t right.

  From the window, I took a look down to the ground and saw Red’s tracks leadin’ to the north and east just as clear as daylight. It was just when I was ‘bout to go find Fields and ask him ‘bout Red that I spied a passel of blue-bellies comin’ up the path to the home. My goose was cooked for sure! After days of runnin’ and hidin’ in Cherokee country, I was ‘bout to get nabbed anyways and taken back to Fort Smith for hangin’ by a Federal military court!

  Of a sudden, Fields shows up in front of his house to greet the uniformed Federals. I remember thinkin’ ‘bout how Fields could look so calm out there with those Federals. I admit I was some fearful of havin’ those blue-bellies takin’ me back to Fort Smith for a Yankee necktie party. Yet, the hair on the back of my neck started to stand up and the thrill of the possibility of a good fight started to set in. Even though I was a mite scared of facin’ a hangman’s noose, it wasn’t like I was shakin’ like the leaves of a cottonwood tree. Still, I was sure hopin’ that Fields could come up with the words to send these fellows on down the trail without gunfire.

  It’s been many a year since that day, but I will never forget that the flat-headed blue-belly identified himself as Hausen.

  With a high and mighty and kind of suspicious manner, I remember this Hausen looked down to Fields, kind of like he was sizin’ him up.

  “We’re lookin’ for a man about six-foot two, long locks of golden hair hanging from his head. Strange eyes. Kinda like the eyes of an eagle or a hawk. He’s responsible for killing a Federal officer in Fort Smith. We’ll find out if you’re lying, so tell me the truth.”

  Fields didn’t hesitate to answer. “Yes, we know of this man. He showed up here last night. Said his name was Hawk Eyes. He asked if we would put him up for the night. We didn’t know this man from Adam, but he kind of looked like a crazy sonofabitch who might kill us, so we decided we’d best take him in, feed him, and give him a bed for the night. Said he was gonna join with some Confederates up in Missouri. He left out this morning before the rest of us ever awoke. I sure as hell hope we ain’t responsible for hidin’ out a fugitive on the dodge.”

  Hausen ordered a scout or some such to dismount and begin sniffin’ around the house and corral for sign. It didn’t take but a few minutes of sniffin’ before the bluebelly scout walks over to Hausen and points to the tracks of Red headin’ to the northeast. It was obvious to me that, over the recent days, these fellows had become acquainted with Red’s tracks. In two motions of his hand, Hausen motions the scout back on his horse and the rest of the blue-bellies off in the direction of Red’s tracks. The whole passel of ’em were gone even faster than they arrived and without utterin’ another word, not even a word of thanks to Fields for his valuable information.

  I remember thinkin’ at the time how ungrateful those flat-headed bastards were. I also remember thinkin’ ’bout how piss-poor they were as trackers. But I weren’t one to correct their bad manners or their sorry trackin’, because they were on the move northeast and away from where I was holed up.

  Fields told me that one of his sons, Garrison, had ridden Red out of the corral early that mornin’. Garrison’s instructions were to ride Red as close to the Missouri border as he could, ridin’ hell for leather as much as possible, just as a man runnin’ from authorities would do. He also told me that my totem route in the Cherokee Nation served to trick the Federals into thinkin’ that I was generally headin’ northeast as I went along. First, I’d met with Youngbird north of Tahlequah, then I headed to Coulter’s place southeast of the town. After that, I proceeded to the Vann spread due east. And, lastly, to the Fields’ place ’bout ten miles northeast of the Cherokee capital. The plan looked like it had worked, as those bluebellies wasted no time in followin’ Red’s tracks out of there at a break neck clip. Fields’ comment ‘bout me possibly headin’ into Missouri to join with the Confederates there seemed to be the icin’ on the cake to make the case.

  Fields assured me that they would get Red back to me if they could. He said they would hide him out for as long as possible in order to let the trail grow cold. That was fine with me. I was already missin’ my trail partner, but eludin’ those Federals for the last time was the most important thing. Fields went to his corral and tossed a rope around a tall roan by the name of Amigo. I took one look at Amigo and knew the handsome, muscular fellow would suit me just fine.

  Leastways, I didn’t figure I’d be hounded by blue-bellies again. That isn’t to say that I didn’t watch my backtrail and generally keep low to the ground. I sure as hell didn’t want to do anything that would start up a new search.

  I spent the next year or so in the Cherokee Nation of the old Indian Territory. I stayed amongst these folks all the way up to the end of the war, which for those of us in the Indian Territory was around June of 1865 when Cherokee General Stand Watie finally told the Federals thereabouts that he would settle down and not cause any more trouble. This was almost two months after Lee’s Surrender at Appomattox Court House.

  One of the first things I did after things started to settle down was to go see Youngbird again. This was only ’bout a week or so after I left the Fields’ place. I’d promised Youngbird that I’d go out on the stickball field with his Cherokees if I was to ever lose those Federals once and for all. I figured myself as a man who kept his promises, so go see Youngbird I did.

  Youngbird was almighty glad to see that I’d eluded them Federals. He told me that I could stay with him for a spell and that he would let me know when those Cherokee boys had planned another stickball game. He said the games were usually held in some meadows ’bout four miles south of Tahlequah, that Cherokees from miles around would be there to take part in all of the festivities. He told me that, if I was lucky, I might find myself a girl there. He said the girls would be bedecked in their best, tryin’ to catch the attention of the stickball players.

  I told Yo
ungbird that I’d had enough of the ladies for the time bein’, and that I traced my most recent troubles back in Fort Smith to the fact that I was revengin’ a woman. The ol’ Cherokee just laughed and said that there is one woman and one woman only for any true man. At the time, I didn’t exactly understand what he was tryin’ to say to me. But there would come a day when I would.

  I’d given a lot of thought to Isabelle over the last several days. I was hopin’ she and the rest of the girls over by the Fort Smith riverfront were safe. I was especially hopin’ that none of the friends of Pig Eyes went back and gave Isabelle’s friend in the next room a hard time over him losin’ his life over her. Of course, the more I thought ‘bout it, the more I realized that his friends would have no way to make the connection. How would they know the reason I’d plugged Pig Eyes? They’d just find his dead body over near the Garrison Road, but how in the hell could they know the reason I’d done him in? In all of this, though, I was realizin’ that the dumbest thing I could do was try and get back into Fort Smith to check on Isabelle. I’d be runnin’ the risk of gettin’ captured, and Isabelle would not want me to chance it. I crossed the idea of returnin’ to Fort Smith out of my mind.

  Of course, in due time I received information ‘bout Isabelle’s situation.

  I hadn’t been at Youngbird’s place but for a few days when Big Buck Wright paid us a visit. Word had got to him that I was hangin’ my hat at Youngbird’s, so he saw fit to pay us a visit. Of course, it was good to see my ol’ friend from the Choctaw Nation after all my runnin’ around over the recent days. The first thing he did was fill me in on Isabelle. After things had settled down a bit down in Choctaw country, one of the first things he did was have someone sneak into Fort Smith to check on Isabelle. It turned out that Isabelle had had enough of the little two-story whorehouse near the riverfront in Fort Smith and, as we spoke, was en route to her home in New Orleans.