Hawk Eyes

by David Althouse

  After only a few days out, the rollin’ hill and mountain country gave way to wide-open prairie and fewer and fewer trees. The farther west I got the better the view became on all sides, givin’ me better opportunity to watch my backtrail. Of course, this also worked in reverse – other folks out there on them plains had a good view on all sides to spot me, which was a thought that made me feel a mite edgy. Of a night, I made certain to hide my fire back in amongst those giant cottonwoods what lined the river. I wondered what stories those ancient trees could tell if they was only able to talk.

  Of an evenin’ out there on those wide-open plains a man was often treated to fire-red sunsets, just as Baker had said. It was around that time of the day, when there was still a bit of daylight left, that I’d look for campin’ spots for the night, always mindful of locations that would offer at least some camouflage for my fire. Of course, I knew that havin’ even the smallest of fires ran the risk of gettin’ me noticed.

  I’d take in those red sunsets and think of Little Doe, and how much better off she’d be when she found herself a man who wasn’t a no-account drifter like me. I figured she’d find herself one of those Cherokee beaux and be much the better for it.

  Youngbird and Tickerneeskee had told me much of Jesse Chisholm, the great trader, scout, and plainsman. Havin’ now decided to pay Chisholm a visit set me to recollectin’ everything they’d told me ’bout the man.

  Chisholm was actually one-half Cherokee and the other half Scot, although he considered himself Indian. And well he should’ve, as he was raised in their midst, learnin’ the ways of the wild and more than a handful of Indian languages by the time he was age fifteen. He picked up knowledge of frontier tradin’ from his Pappy who was also a trader. In his early twenties, he was already a veteran of numerous huntin’, scoutin’, and explorin’ expeditions. His base of operations in those earlier days was the Fort Gibson area of eastern Indian Territory, right there in the Cherokee Nation where I’d just been. There he met Sam Houston and mingled with Indians of other tribes, as well as with frontiersmen who told of their deeds out on the plains and mountains hundreds of miles to the west. This was around the 1830’s and 40’s. At that time, Fort Gibson was one of the most isolated outposts on the southwestern frontier, next to only Fort Towson. A lot of that country to the south and west of Fort Gibson was still unexplored. It was a vast unknown, explored only a handful of times by either military folks or Cherokee huntin’ parties.

  Chisholm himself was party to some of those early-day jaunts. Fact is, those Cherokees said Chisholm was there when the government first met official-like with the Comanche Indians. Chisholm had explored all over that plains country and out beyond the area of the Cross Timbers. He’d served the Republic of Texas under Sam Houston, his friend, by settin’ up peace councils betwixt the Texans and Indian tribes such as the Comanches, and then he would act as interpreter for the attendin’ parties. Even though Texans and Comanches hated each other more often than not, Chisholm was able to bring ’em together to talk many times. Hell, one time, he even escorted a party of Comanches all the way to Washington to meet with the Federals.

  Leastways, I knew for sure that Chisholm would give me straight talk ’bout the current situation in the country thereabouts, as well as the country to the west, which was my own destination. Chisholm’s name was big medicine on the frontier. He was known as a man of great knowledge, had a reputation for honesty, and I couldn’t wait to meet him.

  In ’bout eight days, I’d put the eastern half of Indian Territory well behind me. Perambulatin’ out on the open plains of a day, hidin’ in amongst the cottonwoods along the river of a night, I tried to behold all the color what surrounded me: The endless blue skies durin’ the first part of the day, the sunsets painted with red and orange, and night skies bedecked with a million sparklin’ stars. One thing I noticed, as I got farther west, was sagebrush, outcroppin’s of prickly pear, and shorter grass. The land was takin’ on a different look. I kept my eyes on the lookout for Chisholm’s tradin’ post, and I couldn’t get to it none too soon. I was some anxious ’bout spendin’ my days out there on those treeless plains where anyone within thirty miles could spot me. I was always kind of comforted when night was comin’ on and it was time to hide in amongst those cottonwoods what lined the river.

  I knew I’d found Chisholm’s place when I rode upon a collection of cabins and corrals tucked beneath the shade of ancient cottonwoods on the east side of the river. Chisholm was in one of the corrals tendin’ to a passel of mules. The old plainsman looked to be in his early sixties, had a full head of gray hair with a mustache of the same color, and brown leather-like skin that showed the wear of many summers and winters spent on the frontier. His very appearance spoke of a man possessin’ much knowledge and wisdom, of a man you’d want to council with before settin’ out into the vast country to the west. Of course, I wasn’t forgettin’ he came from the same Cherokee family as Little Doe, from that line of folks known as the Corn Tassel Clan.

  Chisholm’s tradin’ post was not only a place for the buyin’ and tradin’ of supplies needed on the frontier, but it was also an important waypoint for the exchange of frontier information. Folks headin’ east would inform Chisholm and others of the goin’s on back in New Mexico, Colorado, and points west. Folks headin’ west would tell of the happenin’s back east. This is why Chisholm himself was a livin’ wealth of information. When I introduced myself to Chisholm he immediately asked if I was the same Hawk Eyes what killed the cat back near Tahlequah, and I replied that I was.

  “I should be in your debt. Little Doe is a distant relation of mine. I visited with her father on my last visit in the Cherokee Nation.”

  Thinkin’ back on it, his knowledge of this should not have been surprisin’. He often told of things that had only recently happened hundreds and hundreds of miles away.

  On my first day at his tradin’ post, Chisholm told of a recent gold discovery in the Moreno Valley of northern New Mexico. As it turned out, a Ute Indian on a fur-tradin’ visit to Fort Union, showed the fort’s sutler some greenish colored rocks, thinkin’ the stones might be of some value. The sutler, a one Colonel William Moore, recognized that the rocks were actually copper ore. The Ute informed Moore that the rocks came from Baldy Mountain, a location not many miles distant to a seasoned frontiersman. Soon thereafter, a group of men formed a company for the sole purpose of minin’ copper near Baldy Mountain. They hired a group of prospectors to do a survey of the area. On their first visit to Baldy Mountain, one of the prospectors decided to try his hand at pannin’ in Willow Creek, which drains the south slope of Baldy. This feller yanks a goodly amount of gold out of the creek and the notion of copper minin’ was dropped like a hot rock. There were three prospectors sent to Baldy to determine copper quantities, but once gold was found they naturally looked for more – and found it almost everywhere they looked! Chisholm said miners were pourin’ into the country as we spoke. This was a thing to remember, as one of my New Mexico destinations was a high-mountain park in the Sangre de Cristos ‘bout forty miles north and east of Taos. This was an area told of by Charles Baker, and my plan was to visit there. When visitin’ that high-mountain park, it would be important to avoid the new minin’ camp in the Moreno Valley; it wasn’t my plan to hang out a shingle.

  Chisholm told me of Uncle Dick Wooten’s new toll road recently built up on Raton Pass in northern New Mexico. The new toll road lay situated just north of some of the most impressive mesa country in all of the southwest, Chisholm said.

  Chisholm had news of events from the California Road some miles to the south, and from the Santa Fe Trail to the north. He said folks lookin’ to settle in Kansas Territory were usin’ the Santa Fe Trail to stream into that country in huge numbers. If he didn’t know of it, it wasn’t worth knowin’.

  When I told Chisholm of my plans to head into that New Mexico and Colorado country to the west, he advised me to put up for the winter at his tradin’ post. He said winte
r begins early in that Rocky Mountain country, and that also meant northern New Mexico. He said snow can fall at just ’bout any time out that way, but that the skies would most certainly be spittin’ the white stuff in September, and we were in mid-to-late September right then.

  Many others held Chisholm’s words in high regard and my plans were to do the same. His invitation to winter at his place sounded right smart, so I accepted. My plans were to help him get the tradin’ post further off the ground, as he had only recently started in the buildin’ of it. It was plain to see that he needed help buildin’ a barn, another cabin, and more corrals. My help was available and I told him so.

  Spendin’ the winter with Chisholm was a time I’ll never forget. He was one story after another. He would tell me stories of Sam Houston, of the fierce Comanche Indians, of huntin’ and explorin’ expeditions all across the frontier, first-hand accounts all of it. He would tell me all ‘bout his own Corn Tassel Clan of the Cherokees, and I could tell he stood proud to belong to this particular group of the noble Cherokee people. He said the Corn Tassel folks were an adventurous lot, a people what favored learnin’ new things and ways of thinkin’, and of venturin’ out and explorin’ new lands. This accounted for Chisholm’s lifetime spent on the frontier, always livin’ life on the edge of the known and the settled, away from the Cherokee Nation, of the eastern Indian Territory.

  He recounted a story ‘bout Sequoyah, a distant relative of his, and member of the Corn Tassel Clan, that I’d never heard tell of. Some years back, Sequoyah turned up missin’. Chisholm was put in charge of findin’ him. You will recall it was Sequoyah who invented the language that them Cherokees used on my leather totem. As it turns out, Sequoyah not only thirsted for new ways of readin’, writin’, and learnin’, but he also owned a drivin’ urge to see new lands. It happened that Sequoyah set off from Tahlequah around 1842 with a group of like-minded Cherokees en route to the lands west of the famous Cross Timbers of central and western Indian Territory. The scholar was some interested ‘bout the Indian folk what lived out that way. This was largely unknown country filled with unknown people, so westward they commenced. Chisholm, whilst still lookin’ throughout Indian Territory, eventually received reports of Sequoyah down in the Cherokee settlements of Mexico. So, Chisholm, along with a few others who made up his search party, headed below the border. Sadly, upon their arrival in Mexico, they discovered that Sequoyah was dead, havin’ been buried in the town of San Fernando. It heartened me to know that the old adventurer died doin’ what he wanted to do – seein’ the great wide open and meetin’ folks what had been unknown to him heretofore.

  Of course, his stories of the Corn Tassel Clan would often set me to thinkin’ ’bout that pretty Little Doe. The dwellin’ on her would last only so long before Chisholm would tell another story, or would give me new information ’bout the country along the North and South Canadian Rivers and places thereabouts. He told me ’bout a place called Red Rock Canyon, just to the south and west of the tradin’ post. Red Rock Canyon was a known place to the folks what traveled the California Road, as it was a known stoppin’ place along that great trail, and offered a great campsite for the night. Chisholm said the canyon just sort of appeared out of nowhere out there on the plains, and that you almost had to know of its existence in order to find it. I determined that I would ride out and explore the canyon before winter set in, and I told Chisholm so. He told me to be mindful of the many pockets of quicksand what lay at the bottom of the rivers thereabouts. Many folks, he said, had started out across these rivers only to meet an early demise. Of course, I’d learnt to be wary of quicksand whilst drovin’ longhorns up the Shawnee Trail from the San Antonio and Austin areas. The Shawnee, comin’ up out of Texas into Indian Territory, crossed the Red River near Colbert’s Ferry, then pressed on through the Blue River, the Clear Boggy, the Muddy Boggy, both Canadians, the Arkansas, the Grand, and the Neosho. Quicksand was a known danger even farther east in those rivers, and my Pappy knew of the best crossin’ spots whilst drovin’. Still, I’d heed the warnin’ from Chisholm. Those sandy-bottomed rivers throughout Indian Territory could deceive a man, what with their narrow, shallow, and seemin’ly crossable courses.

  It was right ’bout then, I remember, that Chisholm told me ’bout Buffalo Skull, the mix-breed leader of a band of murderin’ cutthroats what had been rampagin’ the frontier thereabouts, killin’ and torturin’ white settlers travelin’ the California Road and central and western Indian Territory in general.

  “He’s rumored to be part Kiowa-Comanche, part Mexican. No one is exactly sure what his background is, but he’s pure poison and hatred all wrapped into one human being, and his band follows his orders to a man. He’d kill one of his own men if they even hinted at crossing him.”

  When I asked ’bout the physical description of Buffalo Skull, Chisholm’s face took on a sour look, sort of like it might be bad medicine to even speak of someone so vile and soulless. But that wasn’t it. It was the dark recollection of the man that so twisted Chisholm’s features as he ventured a description.

  “You will know if you see him. He’s cursed with not only the heart of evil, but also with the look. His eyes speak of a deep hatred for the world and all in it. Long black hair camouflages his face – a face that shows no expression.”

  Chisholm paused for a moment, then continued, obviously speakin’ from his own meetin’ with Buffalo Skull, a meetin’ personal-like.

  “The long black hair also helps hide a scar that runs from his neck up the left side of his face and over to his lip which looks deformed. His features speak of great evil committed and yet to be committed.”

  Chisholm then looked right into my eyes. “If you ever see this man you should flee in the opposite direction. He’s sometimes seen below the river in Texas, many times west of the Cross Timbers, and even once near the site of Chouteau’s old trading post many miles southeast of here. I have lived out on this frontier for many years, and I have seen him but once, but I have witnessed the aftermath of his atrocities first hand. His terror cannot for much longer be borne on this frontier.”

  I offered that I’d as much like to avoid this hombre as to find him, and Chisholm started in again. “From far away, if you see a man wearing a shining necklace sparkling in the sunlight, then know it’s Buffalo Skull. He wears a necklace of turquoise stones, bear claws, and large round silver beads that allow one to identify him from miles away when the sun hits the silver just right. He also wears a bright red bandana around his crown that also stands out. Folks far and wide on the frontier know of these descriptions and the wise ones fight shy of the man when they are fortunate enough to recognize him early enough.”

  All of this painted quite a picture in my mind, and surely gave me somethin’ to think ’bout durin’ those days spent with Chisholm at his tradin’ post there on the North Canadian River.

  One day, shortly after I arrived at Chisholm’s, two fellers rode in to pay a special visit to the famous frontiersman. You might say it was an information gatherin’ meetin’. You see, Chisholm had been travelin’ Indian Territory and Texas back and forth for years. Over all that time, he had come to sort of blaze his own north-south trail through the Indian Territory down to Texas. These visitors said they represented a one Joseph G. McCoy, a cattle buyer from Illinois interested in havin’ Texans drive their longhorn cattle up that trail to McCoy’s stockyards along the railheads in Abilene, Kansas. From there, the cattle would be hauled on railroad cars to markets back east. These folks were sent to ask Chisholm ‘bout the chances of such cattle drovin’ over the trail that he himself blazed and knew so much ‘bout. Chisholm told ’em all ‘bout the trail. He told ’em where exactly quicksand lay in the different rivers, the best spots for crossin’ these rivers, and likely spots for Indian ambushes – all the kind of information drovers would need to navigate unruly longhorns across a sea of plains.

  It turns out this McCoy fellow was a smart enough hombre. He knew those Confederate Texans
were goin’ home after the war to find nothin’ but poverty and near starvation throughout. At the time, the only thing they had in great numbers down there were ornery longhorns, cattle what had multiplied to the hundreds of thousands whilst those boys were off fightin’ Yankees for so many years.

  I listened in with great interest as these folks talked ‘bout the Chisholm Trail – just ’bout a year before it would first be used for the drovin’ of cattle. As these two fellers headed down the trail from Chisholm’s, me and the old trader both knew with certainty that the great cattle drives would soon commence in full.

  Chisholm had seen first-hand the old Shawnee Trail, or Texas Road, durin’ the days of the cattle drives on that great route, so we both knew what Chisholm’s trail would look like in a couple of years. The trail would grow to be ’bout one hundred yards wide in some areas, more or less in others. But all along the trail, you’d soon find cow paths as close to one another as could be. This is the mark of where them longhorns follow along in single file, not in some big scramble as told in the two-bit novels of today. And, there wouldn’t be just one single trail that the drovers would follow. When they’d push the cattle northward, they’d just naturally follow along the general area of the trail.

  A good example of this would soon be ’bout half-way through Indian Territory on the Chisholm Trail where you’d have an east and west fork of the trail, with roughly fifteen miles betwixt. A drover might even trail his herd betwixt those two forks if there was too much traffic on the two branches. They wouldn’t want to get their herds mixed in with other herds, because to separate ’em out later would be one hell of a job. I was sure things along the Chisholm would be much the same as they were along the Shawnee.

  A day’s push along the trail might average five to ten miles a day, a short enough distance in one day to allow a cow to maybe even gain weight on the push north. Just like the Shawnee, Chisholm’s Trail covered an area of good green grass aplenty in the summer. Also, if them drovers was to come across a good stand of grass, they might stop for a spell and let the herd graze. To find good graze, though, a drover might have to look out at the far edges of the trail where the grass hadn’t been used by other herds what had come up recent.