Hawk Eyes

by David Althouse

  Right soon, I came upon Little Doe who was layin’ face down in the dirt with her hands and arms coverin’ the back of her neck, tryin’ as best she could to protect herself from the mountain lion what had just landed on her back at the very same moment that I got there. I remember thinkin’ later how that cat had meant business – goin’ straight for her neck.

  Lookin’ back on it, Little Doe was right smart in layin’ face down and not allowin’ the cat to have her face or belly. Them cats love to get at the belly of their intended prey, usin’ their back feet to rip it open, whilst tearin’ at the face with their teeth.

  But I wasn’t doin’ any thinkin’ at all as I came up on Little Doe and that cat. I was just movin’. I’d gotten right up on ’em when Little Doe’s arms and hands could no longer keep the cat away from her neck. He had just sunk his teeth in deep when I took that sonofabitch by his back leg, pulled him away from Little Doe, and commenced to swingin’ him away from my own body so as to keep his large head away from me. As I think back on it, it was kind of like swingin’ a large sack of potatoes ’round and ’round and away from you, except this particular sack of potatoes was goin’ to chew your face off and tear open your gut if you were to quit swingin’. It didn’t take but a few rotations with that big bastard before I realized I wasn’t goin’ to be able to keep this up for too very long. That’s when I smashed his back into a thick pine trunk standin’ right next to Little Doe. The force of the smash broke his back, or at least I hoped it had. But it didn’t really matter – because in the same motion, I outs with my Bowie and slit his throat from side to side.

  I looks over to Little Doe who was still lyin’ belly-down on the ground. Betwixt the time she emerged from the river and the time she was attacked by the cat, she had slipped her leather dress back on, and I was glad of it. My thinkin’ was that I needed to get her into Tahlequah as quickly as possible to see a doctor, and I wouldn’t have wanted to waste good time puttin’ clothes back on her. I figured she would need the gash in the back of her neck cleaned and some stitches – and quick-like. I wrapped her neck up as best I could with a couple of bandanas I carried – one from my own neck and another from my pocket.

  I told her to lie still whilst I went back down river to fetch Amigo. I then commenced to runnin’ full-bore back down to where Amigo was tied. In no time at all, I had the horse back to Little Doe. When I got back to her she was lookin’ over at the cat’s dead carcass. As I was helpin’ Little Doe up in the saddle, she told me to bring along the cat. I told her that was a fool notion, and that we needed to get her to a doctor in Tahlequah and not waste our time with a dead cat. She insisted, so I wrapped the critter up in my bedroll and we drug her in. We started out down the trail with Little Doe sittin’ in front of me in the saddle. We made for Tahlequah as fast as we could. I had her lean back against me to help cushion her neck from the jostlin’ ride, and to help steady her atop the horse. She couldn’t grip the reins real tight what with her hands bein’ torn up from protectin’ her neck from that cat’s teeth.

  We rode into Tahlequah and, right off, folks were noticin’ that Little Doe was in a bad way, what with her neck bein’ wrapped up and me holdin’ her steady in the saddle as we made our way down the main road of town. I also remember that folks were pointin’ at my bedroll, wonderin’ what was balled up inside it, and why were we pullin’ it down the middle of the street.

  We rode past the buildin’s that made up the little town of Tahlequah. We passed the Masonic Lodge, a two-story frame buildin’ gated by a white picket fence. There were a couple of fellers standin’ out front shadin’ their eyes against the sun and beholdin’ the spectacle that was me, Little Doe, Amigo, and the rolled up bedroll bein’ drug behind. We rode by the National Hotel, another two-story framed buildin’ complete with a balcony over the door that was the front entrance. Here, there were more onlookers. We rode past the general store of J.W. Stapler, a longish, narrow buildin’ from front to back. The customers who were enterin’ and leavin’ the store all stopped to take in this odd scene comin’ down the dirt roads of their town.

  We stopped at the town square where a goodly number of people were gathered.

  In the shade of the Cherokee Supreme Court Buildin’, I helped Little Doe down from Amigo, at once askin’ a group of folks to run and get Doc Thompson. I’d heard tell of Doc Thompson, the first Cherokee sawbones to come from a doctor college, and a man with a good reputation. Once the good Doc was beckoned from his office near the town square, he came runnin’ at a good clip and escorted Little Doe back to his place. I knew she would be in good shape with him.

  ‘Bout that time, I unrolled my beddin’ and out came that cat. An old Cherokee gentleman stepped up and asked if he could have the cat to skin out. I said he could have it as far as I was concerned but that Little Doe was actin’ earlier as if she wanted it when she asked me to bring it in from the river. He said he was some kin to her and would give the hide to her, and so I said good riddance to the dead animal, and was hopin’ I would never see it again.

  ’Bout that time, I made my way over to the National Hotel so as to lean into some of Aunt Taylor’s grub. A gray-haired lady in ’bout her early sixties, Susan Taylor, was the owner and operator of the National, but folks thereabouts just called her Aunt Taylor. The events of the day had worked my belly to growlin’ and I was gettin’ serious ’bout havin’ a big plate in front of me.

  Right soon, she had me fixed up with a generous supply of her own cookin’, and she kept returnin’ to my table with fresh hot coffee. I must’ve thrown down at least four slabs of beef, three baked potatoes, four big squares of cornbread, three bowls of beans, two slabs of pecan pie, and all of it washed down with a pot of her hot, black coffee.

  Lookin’ around, I noticed the National started fillin’ up with people, and there was even an overflow of folks outside starin’ in the windows. I could hear these folks whisperin’ such things as, “There’s the white man who killed the great cat!” Then, someone said, “He killed it with his own bare hands!”

  This was makin’ me feel uncomfortable and quick-like. Aunt Taylor returned to my table and I pulled out the Yankee money to pay her for the food and hospitality. I commenced handin’ the money to her, but she acted as if she was in a sort of daze, and her glossy eyes seemed hypnotized on me.

  “They tell me you saved that girl’s life, killin’ a wild cat with your bare hands.” She then walked briskly away without ever takin’ my money.

  Just as I was standin’ to leave, a feller burst in from outside and came up to my table. He was clutchin’ paper and pen, and it looked like he was all business. He walks up and says his name is Tyler Blush out of Fort Gibson, a town also in the Cherokee Nation. He asked if I would give him the straight of how I came to kill that cat with my bare hands and save Little Doe’s life. Sittin’ back down kind of begrudgin’, I commenced to tellin’ how it all happened. Actually, I was hankerin’ to get out of Aunt Taylor’s crowded place, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell this nice feller to make dust.

  So, there I was in Aunt Taylor’s, sittin’ with this Blush feller out of Fort Gibson, layin’ it all out to the best of my recollection, with a group of ‘bout fifteen people sittin’ close by and listenin’ in.

  “Mister,” he says, “what caused you to first turn around and run back down the river to check on Little Doe? How’d you know something was wrong?”

  My mind began to quickly backtrack and retrace the whole affair. “It was a premonition. Somethin’ down in the gut.”

  He gave me a confused look. “A premonition?” The little feller’s face spoke of great doubt.

  My initial feelin’ was to tell him ‘bout how everything started slowin’ down to my mind’s eye when the warnin’ sounds first came to me from the brush, but not wantin’ him to think me crazy as a loon, the true story was altered a bit. “It was just one of those feelin’s a feller can get from time-to-time, that’s all.”

  Blush takes up his pen a
nd gives me that doubtful look again. “And you say you grabbed one of the cat’s back legs and began swinging it?”

  “Yes sir, swingin’ it out and away from me, just like you’d swing a good size sack of potatoes.”

  Blush wanted to keep pressin’ and it was plain as day that he didn’t believe a cotton-pickin’ word I was sayin’. That was easy to see by the way he crossed his arms in front. “How did the animal not turn in and kill you?”

  His persnickety tone was startin’ to rankle my hocks. “It couldn’t turn in on me as I was swingin’ it pretty damned hard out and away from me. Knowin’ that I couldn’t keep up the swingin’ action for long, I had to slam him real hard against a tree, which was done in good fashion right ’bout the same time I outs with my Bowie and slits his throat.”

  ’Bout that time, Blush broke out laughin’. “Call me crazy, but your story has a ring of truth to it. But, some people are going to call it absolutely unbelievable! Did Little Doe see any of this?”

  “Her face was down away from all the action, and good for her that it was, or that cat would’ve mauled her beautiful face and good, and I don’t think I could’ve lived with havin’ allowed that to happen. But if you have any questions for Little Doe, then I guess you’d best go ask her when she feels up to it.”

  This Blush feller ended his questions cordial-like, but I got the notion he might be thinkin’ of me as some kind of damned storyteller. Blush got up to leave and then one of the on-lookers who had been listenin’ in says to him, “Go take a look at that cat, Blush. There’s not a gunshot wound on its entire body, and its neck is slit just like this ’ere white man says!”

  Blush left Aunt Taylor’s at a fast clip, and I supposed at the time that he went out and tracked down the cat’s carcass to take a close-up look, but I could’ve been wrong.

  That night, I headed ’bout fifteen miles south of Tahlequah to an old abandoned cabin I knew near Park Hill Mountain. Havin’ ridden by this cabin on many occasion, I’d long considered it to be a good place to hole up if someone could just patch the roof in a few spots, which I’d been doin’ off-and-on over the last several weeks. The cabin stood at the base of Park Hill Mountain, with the chortlin’ waters of the Illinois River runnin’ clean and clear over rocks not too far away to the east.

  Bein’ away from people gives a man time to contemplate, and contemplatin’ is what filled most of my time whilst at Park Hill Mountain for ‘bout two weeks. I’d been givin’ considerable thought to what my future held.

  There were a few things what stood out clear. For sure, I couldn’t ever go back to Fort Smith. Even though the war was over, I knew there would still be Federals thereabouts who might like to settle with me for killin’ Mister Pig Eyes back near the Garrison Road on that night that was startin’ to seem like many years before. Even whilst hangin’ my hat near Tahlequah for these many months, I’d heard stories of the scores of Yankee folks who had poured into Fort Smith and were now callin’ the shots. No sir, I wasn’t goin’ back there again – not ever.

  The second thing that was startin’ to make itself real clear to me was that Little Doe acted as if she hated the fact that I breathed the same air. I was startin’ to get my fill of it. I was figurin’ I never had no right thinkin’ I could make Little Doe my own, me bein’ a hard-spun no account from near the border, and her bein’ a genuine beauty, a real princess among her people. Throwin’ all of these things together in one basket was givin’ me the notion of leavin’, gettin’ out of Cherokee country, gettin’ out of the Indian Territory altogether, and headin’ west toward that Rocky Mountain country that Charles Baker and Jesse Youngbird had told me so much ‘bout.

  So, there I was near Park Hill Mountain thinkin’ ’bout my next move. There was part of me wanted to charge straight back and take Little Doe for my own, whether she or anyone else, liked it or not. Pappy told me that women sometimes need a strong reinin’. Of course, I knew Little Doe to be no kind of woman what would tolerate a heavy hand, even if I was of a notion to apply one.

  The night was a welcome thing in that part of the country of a summer, bringin’ with it the coolness of the dark after a scorchin’ hot day. An owl filled the night with his lonesome call just before the sound of horse hooves cloppin’ against stones reached my ears. Steppin’ back from my small fire, I placed myself behind a huge oak trunk.

  ‘Bout that time, someone yelled, “Osiyo! Hallo the camp!”

  The voice proved to be that of Tickerneeskee.

  When hearin’ Tickerneeskee’s voice my mind immediately asked itself how it was he’d found me out there at the remote cabin, as I hadn’t told anyone I’d been visitin’ it.

  “How’d you know where I was camped?”

  Tickerneeskee gave me a good laugh, as only someone who’d become a good friend could.

  “There’s few Indians who can’t track a white man, even on the darkest of nights, and always remember that. I must tell you something. Those Federals may be back on your ass. It’s all because of a story about you printed in the Fort Gibson newspaper.”

  All to once my head began spinnin’. “’Bout me? What kind of story?”

  “A story about you killing that cat and saving the life of my sister. The hell of it is that the story places you in the area of Tahlequah, and we have to think that the Federals in and around Fort Smith have heard of the story by now and have their noses back on your trail. I am thinking that you were one stupid white-ass to have talked with that newspaper fellow.”

  Once my head had stopped spinnin’ it became clear to me that the Tyler Blush feller back at Aunt Taylor’s was the newspaper writer Tickerneeskee was talkin’ ’bout.

  “I’ll be damned! I can’t believe how stupid I am. There was a fellow askin’ me all kinds of questions ‘bout that when I brought Little Doe back to Tahlequah that day. It was a man named Blush. If I’d known he was a newspaper man what was gonna print my whereabouts to the entire world then I’d never answered his questions.”

  Tickerneeskee commenced to fidgetin’ with his fingers, kind of like he had somethin’ to say but was holdin’ back-like. “Well, it’s out there now. Thought you would like to know. Thought you’d also like to know my sister is in love with you.”

  If my head had been spinnin’ before, well it was surely swirlin’ like a hurricane after he said that. Why would my good friend of so many good hunts and camps say such a thing to me? My mind immediately began searchin’ for a reason. And then it hit me. Right then, I knew these Cherokees felt obligated to me for savin’ Little Doe’s life, and I was sure it would take a strong feelin’ of obligation for Little Doe to profess any love for me, or to allow anyone to repeat such a lie to my face. I was figurin’ this to be some kind Cherokee notion, a feelin’ on their part of payin’ me back for a great favor.

  “That’ll be the day. She doesn’t even know me! This is all happenin’ because I saved her from that cat.”

  “Ever think maybe she knows all she needs to know about you? All I know is what I see and hear. Just came to tell you.”

  With that, Tickerneeskee was back out in the night woods, and I figured I’d said somethin’ what offended him, because he took off like his tail was on fire.

  Now my future direction was clear. I had to get out of the Cherokee Nation, out of eastern Indian Territory, out of this part of the world altogether. The Federals were probably hot on my trail again, and a woman what hated me was allowin’ her kinfolks to say she loved me out of a sense of obligation, to repay me for savin’ her life.

  I wouldn’t be party to it, and so I determined to push on westward at first light. My leavin’ would leave an empty place deep inside me, for true, because I was leavin’ behind any hopes of ever winnin’ Little Doe, the one person who had kept me lingerin’ among the Cherokee for as long as I did. I knew of only one way to handle my predicament, and that was to move and move fast, knowin’ that the faster I traveled and the more distance I put betwixt me and the rollin’ green hills and moun
tains of eastern Indian Territory, that the memories of Little Doe might fade the sooner.

  That fateful night, I said goodbye to the Cherokee Nation and eastern Indian Territory forever.

  6 Jesse Chisholm’s Trading Post

  I must’ve made twenty-five miles that first night, headin’ southwest to Webbers Falls. I crossed the river there on the second day and soon thereafter found myself on a spot where the North Canadian River meets the Canadian. Right ’bout then I did some deliberatin’. The Cherokees had told me that Jesse Chisholm, one of their own, had recently set up a tradin’ post on the east banks of the North Canadian River out in the central region of Indian Territory. The way I figured it, I’d just follow the North Canadian westward more or less until I reached Chisholm’s. I was on the banks of the North Canadian right then, albeit ‘bout a hundred and eighty miles to the east. I figured to make for Chisholm’s Tradin’ post and pronto, and then I could outfit myself for the much longer trek westward to that high-mountain gold and silver country told of by Charles Baker.

  Whilst near Webbers Falls, I tinkered with the notion of usin’ the California Road to start my journey west. The California Road started in Fort Smith, shot into Indian Territory, met up and pretty much stayed with the South Canadian River all the way westward through the Territory until eventually meetin’ up with those old Spanish Trails described to me by Baker and Youngbird. As I said before, I chose to follow the North Canadian, as it would bring me straight to Chisholm’s. I also figured the California Road would be more well-traveled than was my likin’, this route havin’ been for many years the preferred trail of many settlers headin’ west. It wasn’t my plan to mix and mingle with folks; it was my plan to put distance betwixt any possible Federals and myself. No sir, I determined that I’d follow the North Canadian, meet up with Chisholm, and figure my next course of action after smokin’ the pipe with him.