Hawk Eyes

by David Althouse

  So, for quite a spell to come, Tickerneeskee and me, most of the time accompanied by Youngbird, hunted the Cherokee Nation from end to end.

  It weren’t long before Tickerneeskee and Youngbird became admirin’ of my shootin’. Even though I only had one shot available at a time with the Enfield, I always aimed to make the one shot count. If I used up two rifle balls durin’ a hunt, then I wasn’t happy if I didn’t go home with two kills. The deer were plentiful in those days, as were the wild turkey. Sometimes we brushed up against wild hogs, and we were fortunate to bring down every one we ever encountered. One time, whilst sittin’ around a campfire drinkin’ coffee, we heard a loud commotion out in the trees and brush. It weren’t but a second later that we were lookin’ face-to-face at a gigantic wild hog that seemed to be makin’ his way to Tickerneeskee who was sittin’ on the outer edge of camp. I ups with my Enfield and blew the boar’s head off at ’bout forty yards.

  Tickerneeskee, who’d become somewhat admirin’ of my shootin’ skills, commences to make loud whistles and laughs his ass off. “You sonofabitch. That is some fast, calm, and accurate shooting!”

  He laughed like a school kid every time I pulled a stunt like that.

  Later, as we stood over the wild hog, they told me the animal was chargin’ full-bore for the kill. I guess it didn’t seem that way to me. Upon first sight of the beast’s face, it seemed that the animal was merely gallopin’ along, givin’ me ample time for the good shot. I didn’t think anything of the shot at the time, but my companions whispered ’bout it and relived it all the way back home. I found out later that Tickerneeskee bragged ’bout it at home to his parents and Little Doe, and then later to half the folks in Tahlequah.

  Durin’ that time, we brought home a lot of fresh game. Tickerneeskee and Youngbird knew a whole lot of families in the area around Tahlequah, and we were always givin’ away fresh game to any number of these folks after our successful hunts. There were times when we dropped off our game at the cabin of Little Doe and her parents. Every time I saw Little Doe, I was reminded of how beautiful she was and how much I wanted to make her mine for life. Sometimes I would try and approach her, but she always seemed to be out of reach, or goin’ in the other direction.

  I remember a day we downed three deer, two wild turkeys, and a wild hog. Tickerneeskee hiked all the way back to his cabin to get a wagon so we could bring the larger animals home in one trip. A few days later, we three were back out on the huntin’ trail again. My companions thought I was out of earshot, but I overheard Tickerneeskee tellin’ Youngbird that Little Doe was askin’ as to the details of who had killed what a few days before. When Tickerneeskee told his sister that it was me who did most of the good shootin’ that day, killin’ three deer and one of the turkeys, she turned around and walked briskly away, as if somehow disappointed. My companions talked of this as if amused by it.

  Now let me tell you somethin’ ’bout Youngbird. All of this time spent with the old Cherokee in the huntin’ woods gave me to know the man a lot better. He proved to be an interestin’ fellow. As I said before, when I first met the old Cherokee, he immediately came across as a man of some mystery and deep knowledge. It turns out that my original notion ‘bout him was dead on right. You see, Youngbird was one well-traveled Cherokee, somethin’ of a historian on the many families livin’ in the Cherokee Nation, and a fellow whose first-hand knowledge of places went well beyond the Cherokee Nation of eastern Indian Territory.

  Many times, he would give me the background on the Cherokee folks I’d come to know and hear ’bout. He told me ’bout Jesse Chisholm, a well-known Cherokee who had become somethin’ of trader, trailblazer, and peacemaker in the plains country to the west. Of course, the greatest cattle trail in the history of the world would come to bear the Chisholm name shortly after my time in Cherokee country. Youngbird explained that Chisholm was a distant relative of Tickerneeskee and Little Doe. They were all members of the Corn Tassel clan of Cherokees, along with Sequoyah, who I mentioned before. Youngbird, who had seen Chisholm some months prior, told me of the trader’s plans to build a tradin’ post out along the Canadian River in central Indian Territory.

  It turns out that Youngbird had traveled much farther west to places such as Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah. And he returned home to Cherokee land with a deep knowledge of those places which make up that great southwestern country. He had first-hand knowledge of the Indians, the Spanish, the explorers, the wildlife, and the general lay of the land throughout.

  How Youngbird came to see all of those places is an interestin’ thing in itself. Around 1849, a group of adventurous Cherokees left Cherokee country for the western lands. Startin’ out in Tahlequah, they began a journey that would take some of ’em as far as the gold fields of California. Some of these Cherokees were tryin’ to strike it rich. Others were out for the exhilaration of the trip itself. Youngbird was one such. He was a man what valued knowledge more than he valued riches, and this was somethin’ I liked a lot ’bout the man. The group traveled the Arkansas River as far west as Colorado. It was there that Youngbird said he would go no farther along with the expedition, choosin’ instead to see more of the Colorado country, then head south into New Mexico, and later on into Arizona and up into Utah. Some of ’em headed to the gold fields, and a few others went on up into Wyomin’.

  The trail these men left behind is known as the Cherokee Trail, and folks still travel its curves and grades to this day.

  In Colorado, Youngbird set out on his own to begin a personal journey he would remember for a lifetime. He was a storage house of priceless information for me, kind of like Charles Baker was with his countless stories of the far off western lands. There was many the time around the campfire that I sat spellbound to Youngbird’s many stories. It was ’bout seventeen years prior that Youngbird had made that great journey, and so it was fascinatin’ to hear him recount his many experiences and discoveries from memory. Eventually, I was to see all of that far away land for myself, but I was already deeply acquainted with it as a result of my associations with first Baker and then Youngbird.

  Youngbird brought me up to snuff on countless things ’bout the southwest. But early on in my friendship with him, when he, Tickerneeskee, and I were busy in the huntin’ woods, the one thing he said that interested me most was the fact that Little Doe’s father was also on that original trip west with Youngbird and the others. It turned out that Little Doe’s father held his daughter spellbound with his stories of the far west and she, just like me, hungered for the sights, sounds, and smells of that romantic country. I found it interestin’ that she resented some of her Cherokee brethren for agreein’ to come west from the southeast to their present home, but longed to adventure out to unknown lands herself.

  I should’ve known better than to compare her yearnin’s to wander to what happened to the Cherokee people so many years before on a government-forced removal from their lands east of the Mississippi to their present home. Fact is, though, many of them Cherokee folks resented their forced removal from the southeastern part of the country to what is now Oklahoma, and rightly so.

  The removal happened back in 1838, and it came to be known as the Trail of Tears. Some of my new Cherokee friends referred to it as The Trail Where We Cried. The reason they called it that is because thousands of Cherokee folks died on that horrible journey, some of ‘em from disease of one kind or another, some from hunger, and some from just sheer exhaustion.

  As it turns out, there were Cherokees back in those days who were for removal, and there were some against. That division played a part in Cherokee politics for many years afterwards. If you were a Cherokee referred to as a Treaty Cherokee, then that meant you were for the removal treaty. Stand Watie was such a Cherokee. He and others simply believed it was better to agree to government terms before losin’ their lands outright back east to white squatters and such. I guess there’s pros and cons to just ‘bout everything.

  One thing I noticed durin’ my
time in Cherokee country was that the Treaty folks seem to be the ones who milled ’bout in Tahlequah, conductin’ business, goin’ to church, and generally livin’ out life similar to that of white folks.

  Those folks who stood against removal were called Ross Cherokees, as the most well-known Cherokee against removal was a fellow by the name of John Ross, a great chief of his people. Ross Cherokees seemed to stay away from Tahlequah as much as possible. They might come into town every now and then to trade hides and such, but they generally stayed out in the less traveled areas of the Nation, way back in the woods in their remote cabins. Little Doe and her folks were in this group.

  Of course, Youngbird, Tickerneeskee and I were always flush in hides in those days so you could find us in Tahlequah on many a Saturday makin’ trades.

  Now, let me tell you ‘bout the best trade I ever made in Tahlequah with my deer hides. I don’t remember the fellow’s name, but he was a full-blood Cherokee who lived in a cabin in the far off timbered ridges of that Cherokee country. He stayed away from the river valleys of his mixed-blood kin, only comin’ into town maybe a few times a year. I can tell you we haggled and haggled and after ’bout an hour I ended up with the biggest, most beautiful Bowie knife you ever did see. And all for only two good size deer hides, which I was happy to part with in order to appropriate that wonderful knife. Its blade shot out almost twelve inches from a shiny bone handle, with the widest part of the blade measurin’ almost two inches wide near the hand-carved bone. The base of the blade sported a nice strip of hard brass meant to intercept an opponent’s blade in a knife fight. There would come a day – a day you will hear ’bout in good time – when the only thing betwixt me and hell was that Bowie. From the first day I appropriated it, I carried that knife with me everywhere I went. It became a part of my wardrobe, so to speak. It made a damned good skinnin’ knife, too. You hear fellows braggin’ ’bout how they can dress out a big buck with a little pocketknife and such, and I don’t doubt they’re tellin’ the truth. Hell, anyone can make due with a small knife if they have to, but if you don’t have to, then why should you? I was fortunate enough to own a nice sharp Bowie and I believed in usin’ it. It also proved worthwhile when I was needful of cuttin’ good size branches with which to build a sturdy lean-to or some such.

  Whilst I was proud of myself for the trade I’d made, I also knew that a better trade would be givin’ away ten thousand of such works of art for one Little Doe.

  The bad thing ’bout it was that Little Doe, just like many of her full-blood neighbors, didn’t make it to town too often, much to my chagrin. To be honest, I would go into town to trade hides with the notion that I might see her somewhere durin’ the day. Over a month’s time I might see her once, if that often. One time, as I was makin’ a trade of a stack of deer hides, I looked down the street and saw Little Doe lookin’ down in my direction. I tried to act like I didn’t notice and went back to conversin’ on my trade. ’Bout a minute later I looked back and she was starin’ straight at me. She saw that I’d noticed her and then she hurried on ‘bout her way, as if she had never looked my way at all.

  Of course, town wasn’t the only place where I saw Little Doe. On a few occasions, I went by to visit Tickerneeskee at his cabin, located on a ridge not far from the Illinois River. Little Doe was there at the cabin each time I visited, but I could tell by her manner that she didn’t want to converse or otherwise have anything to do with the likes of me. I wasn’t goin’ to push things; I intended to let her have her head. I know there’s times what call for goin’ in full-bore and wipin’ out a place, but this wasn’t one of those situations.

  When I first laid eyes on Little Doe, I knew I wanted her for my own, if she would have me. Thinkin’ of her was gettin’ to be a mornin’, noon, and night kind of thing. I would catch myself daydreamin’ ’bout her and then curse myself for a damned fool. What would a beautiful Cherokee maiden like her see in the likes of a runaway drifter like me? As much as I would try and shut her out of my mind, the beautiful image of her would only keep reappearin’.

  To my recollection, things went on like this for several months. I’d go huntin’ with Youngbird and Tickerneeskee and we’d bring in the good kill. This meant that I would sometimes go by Tickerneeskee’s cabin and that meant I’d see Little Doe. We’d dress out our kill and stretch out the hides. That meant I’d go into Tahlequah to trade ’em when I got a good pile built up. And when I was in Tahlequah I’d always be on the lookout for Little Doe, even though I only seen her in town on a few occasions.

  Even though I’d vowed at first to make Little Doe mine come hell or high water, as time went by, I was beginnin’ to wonder if I’d a chance. I told myself that if I didn’t start makin’ headway pretty quick, I was goin’ to quit wastin’ my time. And it was goin’ to be pretty damned hard to win her over if I wasn’t able to even speak a word to her. ’Bout this time, I was gettin’ a kind of restless feelin’, like I needed to hit the trail for new country. Of a night, when my mind had dwelt on Little Doe all it could stand, I’d dream ’bout all of those places Charles Baker and Jesse Youngbird had told me ‘bout.

  I’d dream ‘bout that mesa country of eastern New Mexico, and tried to paint a picture in my mind of what it might look like. I’d envision them high-up peaks of the San Juan range in Colorado, and I’d try to see, as best I could, those rushin’ streams hellin’ out of that sky-high country. And, in my mind, I’d gallivant up and down the shores of the Arkansas River as it wound its way out of that Colorado country down to where we were in the Indian Territory.

  That was pretty much the lay of the land for me in Cherokee country right up to ‘bout late August of 1865. Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox Courthouse in April. The Cherokee’s own General Stand Watie surrendered to the Federals in June down in Doaksville, Indian Territory, damn near two months after Lee’s surrender.

  It was a burnin’ hot summer that year in the Cherokee country of eastern Indian Territory. I’d been camped out in the remote high bluff country of those Cookson Hills, just scoutin’ around and generally not payin’ a never mind to anyone. I would kill my own meat when I was of a need to. When my water supply was gettin’ low, I would find a spot in the Illinois River where the water ran clean and clear, dip in my canteen, and top her off.

  And, that’s just what I was doin’ on one of those hot summer days around mid-mornin’. I’d made my way back toward Tahlequah and was only just a few miles from the town when I realized my canteen was low. I’d found a spot there on the Illinois where the water chortled clear and clean over a bed of stones at a good clip. I dismounted and was holdin’ my canteen down in the water when I looked down stream and noticed what looked like Little Doe waist deep in the river takin’ her mornin’ bath. As I turned my head to look away, I realized for sure that the beautiful maiden was Little Doe after all. She was unclothed all the way and was figurin’ she was alone, so I wasn’t goin’ to take unfair advantage and see what I was not supposed to, even though I might have done just that on many another occasion if the bather had been a different girl. But, I wasn’t goin’ to do the dishonorable thing when the maiden in question was my beautiful Little Doe.

  She wasn’t but ’bout sixty yards from me, and I could hear her singin’ a song in Cherokee, a little singsong ditty that made a pleasant sound to my ears. I couldn’t understand what her pretty soundin’ poem was ’bout, but, at that moment, it was a sound from heaven to me. I remember thinkin’ to myself that her voice was the most beautiful that I’d ever heard.

  I’d remounted and had gone on a few yards when I jokin’ly cursed myself a fool for not stayin’ and watchin’ more of the show I’d happened upon. After all, what had I ever gotten from Little Doe but sharp rebuffs and stone-cold silence? Nevertheless, I rode on.

  Of a sudden, I felt a strong premonition comin’ on, a feelin’ of somethin’ ’bout to happen. The whole world around me seemed to slow down. I looked down at the flowin’ water of the Illinois River and it seem
ed to flow much slower, barely movin’ along. Somehow, when I looked at the bushes and trees along the river, I seemed to see each and every leaf and twig in full detail, and not as just clumps of leaves or bunches of twigs. The rocks along the river stood out to me as never before, and it seemed as if I could make out every flake of lichen or moss along their sides. It was as if the whole world around me stood out in a kind of detail that I’d seen only a few times before. Another thing that happened was that I heard every sound around me, large and small. Every little chucklin’ sound of the flowin’ river water made its way to my ears, every blow of wind against every leaf of every tree. I reined Amigo to a stop and tried to make some kind of sense of what was happenin’ around me. And then it came to me that this was a feelin’ that I didn’t cotton to.

  I sat there atop Amigo for ’bout a minute, and then I heard a sound that stood out above all the rest – the sound of somethin’ off in the trees and brush movin’ toward the direction of Little Doe who was back behind me ’bout sixty-five yards. My premonition told me it was an animal stalkin’ Little Doe, but I wasn’t certain. I just knew I had to get back to her, and pronto.

  Dismountin’ as fast as I could, and wrappin’ Amigo’s reins around a nearby branch real quick-like, I started at a dead run back toward Little Doe, figurin’ I could more easily negotiate my way around the brush and large rocks along the river banks whilst afoot. It seemed my mind had remembered every detail of my backtrail to Little Doe. I wasn’t even thinkin’ as I ran around the thicker brush, through the thin brush, and over rocks near the size of boulders. It just happened that way.