I remember thinkin’ that she had told me the truth the whole time ’bout where she was from. By damn, she was from New Orleans after all! Of course, I wasn’t begrudgin’ the fact that she was leavin’. I wasn’t so hardheaded as to not understand that life for a woman in a frontier brothel was not exactly a storybook thing. That, coupled with the fact that Fort Smith had been rattled with war for some time, gave me to know that leavin’ the area was probably the smartest thing Isabelle could do. I’m sure I’d be ready for a change, too. The main thing was that I could rest easy ‘bout Isabelle. I knew that once she got home to her folks down in Louisiana, she was in good hands. I also realized that she was the type of girl what didn’t belong in a whorehouse in the first place.
It was good havin’ Big Buck Wright in the neighborhood, even though he spent a good deal of time tellin’ Youngbird what a worthless white-ass I was. I didn’t mind, as Buck was a true friend of mine and could say whatever he was of a mind to.
Buck wasn’t aimin’ to stay with us for long, maybe just a day or two. But that changed when Youngbird let it out of the bag that I was gonna be playin’ stickball with his Cherokee friends a few days later.
Buck just couldn’t resist laughin’ his ass off at the idea. “They’re gonna lay you on your white ass! I’m gonna stick around to see this, ’cause none of my Choctaws would ever forgive me if I didn’t have the first hand story to tell!”
Buck knew ‘bout the Cherokee game of stickball, and he knew I stood a good chance of gettin’ my brains knocked out if I wasn’t careful. His attitude seemed to be that I was a damned fool to even consider gettin’ on the same field with those crazy Cherokee stickball players. Judgin’ by the tone in his voice, Buck was maybe tryin’ to talk me out of the idea. Of course, I’d given my word to Youngbird, and I was aimin’ to keep it.
In the meantime, Youngbird commenced to tellin’ me all ’bout the game of stickball.
Youngbird said that the folks watchin’ the stickball would be dressed in all their finest. Folks would come from across the Cherokee Nation, young and old alike. These folks think highly of the game and the fellows who play it. If a young man went out on the field and played with bravery, then he measured up in their estimation. The young bucks would be tryin’ to play their level best, not only to impress the many young and beautiful ladies who were there, but also to prove to the entire Cherokee Nation that they were fearless.
After hearin’ Youngbird tell all ’bout it, I had in my mind’s eye a pretty good idea of what to expect on the day of the big stickball game.
Soon, it was the day of the big game. Me, Youngbird and Buck left the day before to a little area ’bout four miles south of Tahlequah known by some folks as Indian Meadows, the spot used by the Cherokee as the stickball field. Some folks had already come from across the Cherokee Nation and made camp near the field. They didn’t want to make the ride the day of the game. These folks wanted to be able to get up fresh the day of the game and be able to enjoy themselves. When we arrived on our buckboard the afternoon of the day before, and I saw all of the people gathered around the meadow, I knew that everything Youngbird had told me was true. This was all-fired important to the folks in Cherokee country. I was kind of wonderin’ what I’d allowed myself to get into.
Everything fit the picture described by Youngbird. The field was ‘bout two hundred yards long, with a stake planted exactly in the center. This marked the half-way mark of the field. The edges of the field, or the outer boundaries, were marked as best as could be – that is, with stones, sticks, or whatever was at hand. Two wooden stakes, ‘bout three or four feet apart, planted in the ground at either end of the field, served as the goals. When the ball went through these two markers a point was scored for that team. The ball was made of deerhide strips what had been rolled up tight. Each player would be equipped with a playin’ stick. The playin’ stick was ‘bout three feet long with a bend at one end woven with deerskin strips. They called the playin’ stick a racquet.
Of course, even on the day before the game, the folks were all dressed up to beat the band. Now, as a rule, Cherokees didn’t get all feathered up as Indians to the west did. Most of the time, these Cherokees wore clothes similar to those of the typical white man or woman. But, on game day, the players would be adorned with a large feather of either the eagle or hawk. A second smaller feather with a red tip was tied near the top of the larger feather. I was struck by the fellows who’d removed their pants and traded ’em for the traditional Cherokee breechclouts. The breechclout was made of deerskin and served as the only thing coverin’ up the fellow’s private parts – from the front or behind! I told myself right then that I was playin’ the game in my jeans, that no one was gonna see my manhood floppin’ around or my ass hangin’ out when the breechclout flew up and down!
Many of the other folks were also adorned in traditional Cherokee clothin’. I saw both men and women in leather moccasins adorned with colorful beadwork. I saw women with their coal-black hair rolled up in tight balls atop their heads, and women whose long hair hung straight down to the bottom of their backs. Some of the women wore short, sleeveless deerskin dresses that went ‘bout half-way down the thigh and fitted snug against their curvy bodies. This caught my attention in a hurry, and I had to remind myself that it was bad manners to take second glances. And then some of the ladies wore longer leather dresses and some even wore more colorful dresses that looked to be made of cotton. Of course, I can’t lie to you – these Cherokee women stood out to me with their refined beauty. I still contend to this day that the Cherokee people are a beautiful people, and them Cherokee ladies are among the prettiest of any group of female girls I’ve ever seen.
I was takin’ all of this in when Youngbird told me I would be dressed up just like the Cherokee fellows when I took to the field the next day. That is, with feathers atop my head, no shirt, deerskin moccasins, and a breechclout. I was too busy lookin’ around and takin’ in the scenery, so I didn’t really hear Youngbird when he first used the word breechclout.
But, after a few seconds the word sunk in. “Did you just say breechclout? I ain’t wearin’ no such thing as a breechclout!”
Youngbird returned a stare what made me feel like one worthless sonofabitch. “Then you will be the most ridiculous looking player on the field. All players wear the breechclout. You will wear it or else you will not take the field. You will make an insult to the people of the Cherokee Nation, to the Cherokee race itself, if you do not wear the traditional stickball attire.”
Well, I weren’t ’bout to insult these folks, as each day among ’em my admiration for ’em grew. I knew these folks to be a people of great honor, courage, and pride, and they proved all of this to me in a personal way over the recent weeks. That settled it right there. If I was to wear all of the traditional stickball attire on the field, then so be it. I wasn’t carin’ who’d see my privates. I felt I owed these folks, and it was the least I could do to respect their ways. I ain’t sayin’ I was lookin’ forward to the notion; but, I was willin’ to swallow my pride and take to the stickball field wearin’ the same thing as them Cherokee fellers.
The hour of the game was soon at hand. Youngbird, who had informed the organizers of the game beforehand of my participation, led me over to the meadow where the playin’ field had been marked off. As it turned out, there were many more instructions and rules of the game that I needed to hear. All of the stickball players, myself included, gathered at the middle of the field to hear the final words of the feller who seemed to me the rule keeper, or the man in charge. I thought Youngbird had filled me in on all of the things I need to know, but that wasn’t so. Each player was assigned an opposin’ player to guard. In Cherokee stickball, guard means to tackle, clobber, or anything else that might be necessary to keep the player you’re guardin’ from ever gettin’ the ball to begin with, and from scorin’ the ball if he does manage to get his hands on it. That meant that most of the game was spent clobberin’ and tacklin’ p
eople, and gettin’ sledge hammered your own self. The guardin’ was all-fired important because when your opponent got his hands on the ball, he could then run for the goal and score, keepin’ the ball in his racquet as he went. But, just because a player ran through the goal with the ball, doesn’t mean that a score has been made. Not by a damn sight! A score is not counted until the player who ran through the goal successfully runs back out onto the playin’ field. And that’s a damned hard thing to do when the entire opposin’ team is tryin’ to keep you from doin’ just that. That’s right! They’re chargin’ you from the get-go. And they’ll tackle, clobber, or generally knock your ears down to keep you from re-takin’ the field and completin’ the score.
Hearin’ all of this soon gave me to know that I wouldn’t likely finish the day without my head in bandages.
Twenty players had showed up to play. That made it real easy for the teams to be divided up with ten players betwixt the both of ’em. The rule keeper said one team would be called the Hawks and the other the Cats. After the rule keeper had divided up the teams, I found myself playin’ for the Hawks. The rule keeper looked at me with appraisin’ eyes and told me he was ‘bout to find out what manner of a man was this so-called Hawk Eyes.
After the rule keeper had finished his little speech, he tossed the ball up at the center of the field and thus commenced all the commotion and rage that hell can muster.
Right after the openin’ ball toss, the ball found its way to my general area and that’s when I found myself on the ground seein’ stars! I remember the stars were all kinds of colors – green, orange, red, blue. Some of the stars were more than one color at once! I laid there for a spell tryin’ to gather my senses whilst the game was goin’ on all around me. Now, there’s somethin’ damned difficult ‘bout recoverin’ from a stone cold knockout. Once you’ve been knocked out, it ain’t generally in you to run back out to the thing that caused you to get knocked out in the first place. It’s kind of human nature to just go ahead and sit out from whatever the cause was. But I knew that I’d be showin’ myself as no account if I just lay there. Somehow, I mustered up enough grit to get back on my legs and sort of shake the stars out of my brain.
I got back out on the field and I kept my eyes and ears peeled for all of the action goin’ on around me. I wasn’t goin’ to get cold-cocked again. After that, I slobber-knocked my man every time the ball got near him. I was makin’ him think twice ’bout tryin’ to get near it. When he was within five feet of the round leather thing and in any way actin’ as if he wanted it, he got a forearm to the head or waylaid below the knees. We played for hours like this. I know I didn’t wind up as the head horse of the day, but I made a good showin’ of myself. My man – a strappin’ strong full-blood Cherokee fellow by the name of Tickerneeskee – didn’t score a single time, and I managed to score once. The hardest part of my scorin’ was gettin’ myself back onto the field after runnin’ through the poles. How I did it was simple enough. I gritted my teeth and flexed every muscle in my body and took off like a cyclone, twistin’ this way and that, and bored into them fellers with everything in me. Makin’ it back on the field was a chore. They was comin’ at me from the front and sides, chargin’ into my body like demons from hell. How I made it back out there I don’t really know, but make it I did. Congratulations from all of my teammates came forthwith. All to once, the game was over. I don’t rightly know which team won, and I don’t know that anyone cared.
It was durin’ that game that I met a feller who would become one of the greatest friends I’d ever know – Tickerneeskee.
And, it was right after the game, as I was leavin’ the field, that I laid eyes on the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen before or since.
5 A Cherokee Goddess
She was a Cherokee girl, full blood without a doubt, but there was somethin’ different ’bout her, somethin’ I just couldn’t put my sights on. Regardless, she looked like an angel sent from heaven. Long, coal-black hair, rolled up in a tight, round bun, sat atop her head. Her face was the face of a queen, and she held her chin high and proud like a queen would. Somehow, her mysterious dark eyes seemed to resemble those of an oriental woman, and her full lips appeared as curvaceous as her slender, athletic body. She was adorned in a sleeveless deerskin dress that outlined her feminine waist and thighs, and allowed full view of her long brown athletic legs. A Cherokee goddess she was, and I knew right then she was to be mine. She was the one woman for me for my whole life and I realized this fact right there at that moment. Later, I found out that her name was Little Doe. As it turned out, she went by her Cherokee name, choosin’ not to adopt the white man’s use of a Christian name and a surname. There were a handful of Cherokees in the Cherokee Nation who held as much as possible to the old ways, and Little Doe was one of ’em.
I hadn’t noticed her durin’ the three hours or so of the game. I was too busy tryin’ to keep from gettin’ my head split. She was standin’ with two other girls, both of whom were beautiful in their own right, but nothin’ compared to her. The two girls with her I’d noticed durin’ the game. I remember thinkin’ they were gigglin’ at me. I couldn’t figure out what it was they found so damned funny. Maybe they were gigglin’ at my style of play, seein’ that I was new to the game. Maybe they were gigglin’ ’cause I looked ridiculous in a breechclout, what with all of my man parts showin’ themselves from time to time. Maybe they were laughin’ at me ’cause they thought I looked funny. Durin’ the game, I just didn’t have no way to know. I asked Youngbird and Buck afterwards for their opinion and they said these girls had never seen an ass as white as mine before, and the sight of mine sent ’em into a gigglin’ frenzy. I allowed that was reason enough in my book. Showin’ itself as it was from under the breechclout, I figured these Cherokee girls would find that kind of funny, especially since they didn’t see too many white asses in the course of a day.
Anyway, as I left the stickball field, I walked toward the three ladies with the intention of strikin’ up a conversation with Little Doe. The two gigglers were still gigglin’ as I approached ’em, but Little Doe didn’t seem to share in the gigglin’ nature of her two friends. She was beyond beautiful, like a storybook queen, and she was definitely above the little girl antics of her two friends.
“I’m Hawk Eyes,” I said. The woman named Little Doe barely looked at me before she turned around and walked briskly away, without even a hello. What I did to set her off I didn’t know; I just knew that I worshipped the ground she walked on, and that I would somehow make her mine or else die in the tryin’.
‘Bout the time I turned around to go find Buck and Youngbird I found myself lookin’ into the eyes of Tickerneeskee, the man I guarded on the stickball field. He extended to me his hand and we shook firmly. He looked me square in the eyes, with a real curious look, and told me that I did well on the stickball field. I replied that I still didn’t feel I knew a damn thing ’bout the game, and thanked him for takin’ it easy on me.
“Oh, but I didn’t take it easy on you. You did well, and I mean it. What is your name?”
“I’m Hawk Eyes.”
“An apt description, I think.”
Tickerneeskee turned out to be one of the best fellers I’d ever met in this life, and someone I considered a true friend. I asked him to join Buck, Youngbird, and myself at our camp for food and drink, and he accepted the invite.
Around the fire that evenin’ I asked him ’bout the girl named Little Doe.
He laughed just the least little bit. “I see you have an interest. Many have. But, I can tell you that she’s much more the traditional Cherokee than many of the folks hereabouts. She nearly despises the Cherokees who have forsaken the old ways, as most around here have, and she cares for white men even less. I mean this as no offense, but you have no chance to get her attention.”
“You seem to know her well.”
Tickerneeskee smiled. “I ought to. She’s my sister.”
Buck looked at me with a snicker.
With that, I flung my coffee into the brush outlinin’ our camp, rolled out my bedroll, and fell fast asleep. The last thing I remember hearin’ before fadin’ out were the distant voices from the surroundin’ camps, the occasional clankin’ sound of tin coffee cups and pots, and the chirpin’ of the crickets.
To me, the chirpin’ song of the crickets is always a comfortin’ thing.
Buck took out for the Choctaw Nation the next day. I’m sure he arrived home with stories aplenty of me gettin’ my brains clobbered by Cherokee stickball players and me gettin’ stood up by a beautiful Cherokee maiden. I reckoned Buck could tell the stories however he was of a mind to.
Me, I stayed on with Youngbird. This was at the request of Youngbird and Tickerneeskee, as they were both of a mind to do some huntin’ with me in the Cherokee Nation. I was glad they asked me, not only because I wanted to hunt the countryside with my two new friends, but because I also didn’t want to leave this part of the country with a girl as beautiful and mysterious as Little Doe behind. She knocked me off my feet from the very beginnin’, and I meant to make her mine – somehow, some way.
The huntin’ around Cherokee country in those days was prime, and probably still is. We never seemed to lack for all the wild game a man could ask for. My weapon of choice in those days was an 1853 Enfield Rifle Musket, issued to me when I went with Beau to fight Yankees with Cooper and his Choctaw-Chickasaw Regiment. When I made for home after Beau was killed, I just naturally appropriated the rifle as it fit so perfectly in my hands. As for the Sharps Buffalo Rifle given to me by General Stand Watie, albeit through Big Buck Wright and his band of Choctaws, I decided to keep her wrapped up for later duties. The Sharps was just so shiny and smooth that I just couldn’t see gettin’ her all scratched up from the get-go.
Hawk Eyes Page 6