Hawk Eyes

by David Althouse

  At first glance, I couldn’t make out the fellow, so I decided to shorten the distance a little more. A good wind came along, whisperin’ in amongst the cottonwoods and makin’ the leaves to flutter, and I knew that was my time to move closer. I crept into a concealed spot roughly seventy-five feet distant from the fire. I kept tellin’ myself that them fellers would have a hard time seein’ me, what with their eyes bein’ trained on those cracklin’ flames. Still, I was workin’ hard to stay quiet and well hidden. I was then able to get a close-up look at the one who’d just walked into the scene.

  At first, his eyes appeared almost as expressionless as those of the Indian. Upon closer look, his eyes showed somethin’, a kind of fire layin’ dormant within him. It was then I noticed the red bandana around his head and the silver and turquoise necklace around his neck. How could I not have noticed that necklace with the firelight reflectin’ off those big silver beads? How could I not have noticed the long black hair camouflagin’ that horrible scar that ran along the left side of his face clear down to his neck? How could I not have noticed all the signs Chisholm had told me ’bout?

  Hell, I was lookin’ straight and square into the eyes of Buffalo Skull! My eyes were set on his twisted features, hypnotized on his satanic likeness. After a few minutes, he shifted his head and seemed to re-focus his eyes. It seemed as if he was starin’ directly back into my own eyes, and I will be the first to tell you, the thought of it sent shivers down my spine.

  I figured there was at least three of ’em in the camp, and I entertained the possibility that there might be more of their party back in the trees behind the fire. I couldn’t be certain of their head count just by countin’ those I’d seen by the fire. Sure, I’d followed three sets of tracks that I was sure belonged to them, but how could a body be sure there hadn’t been latecomers to their camp who arrived from another direction? I was only certain that I was unsure as to their numbers, even though I might have a good idea.

  For a time, the fire’s light dimmed lower, and I couldn’t make out what was goin’ on in the camp, who was still by the fire, or who had left. Right soon, someone threw on more firewood and things lit up again for a better view.

  After a time, someone in a long white dress appeared in front of the fire, dancin’ and laughin’ and makin’ all kinds of noise. Long black hair swirled this way and that as the wearer of the dress hopped up and down, back and forth, makin’ all kinds of shrieks and cries I couldn’t understand. All to once, there came loud laughter from someone back in the trees who I couldn’t see. For only a moment the dancin’ stopped and I was able to make out the face of the person in the dress. It was the Indian! The one laughin’ at all the horseplay was the hairy faced Mexican who lay hidden back in the trees. I knew this because Buffalo Skull was still in full view and he had made not one peep durin’ this whole lively affair, not even acknowledgin’ it was goin’ on. It was then I knew for sure that these were the murderers of the family back at the canyon. They’d murdered and tortured those poor people and then ransacked their wagon and took the white dress. It made my blood boil to see ’em rubbin’ the salt in further with this display that seemed to mock the very people they’d tortured and murdered.

  Then somethin’ happened that I’ll never forget as long as I live. Buffalo Skull mumbled somethin’ I couldn’t understand to the dancin’ Indian. A few seconds passed and then he mumbled it again. Buffalo Skull kept lookin’ at the Indian as if he expected some kind of reaction, a reaction he wasn’t gettin’. He didn’t mumble the comment toward the Indian again. He pulls a large pistol from his side and shoots the Indian dead in his tracks. He murdered his own henchman deader than hell and never thought twice ’bout it – sort of like how you would smash a bug or kill a wasp.

  I’ll be the first to tell that the horror of this deed shook me down to the core, and it took me a few minutes to start thinkin’ clear again. What kind of people, I thought to myself, kill their own on such a slight offense? It was then I knew I was spyin’ in on a little piece of hell. Once my heart had stopped poundin’, I decided to remain where I was and think this thing out. Before the night was out, I wanted to plant a bullet in Buffalo Skull. He still sat in the same spot where he’d been most of the night, right there against that cottonwood tree with his face starin’ into the fire, which he would feed with limbs every so often.

  I outs with that Sharps Buffalo rifle and draws a bead on that savage bastard just as clean and sharp as could be. I placed my finger aside that trigger and knew that, had I squeezed just enough, Buffalo Skull would be sent to his place in hell right soon, but without a head. Several times my finger wanted to squeeze ever so gently back on that trigger to rid this great beautiful world of that ugly, stinkin’, gnarly sonofabitch. Every time my finger got the itch to squeeze, there was somethin’ what kept holdin’ it back. I thought ‘bout it for a spell and figured that somethin’ was the fact that I didn’t know where the Mexican was.

  I could bore Buffalo Skull just as pretty as could be, but after I did I’d have to account for that Mexican. Once he heard the boom of that rifle and then looked over to see his boss layin’ dead by the fire, he’d go on the hunt. And he’d have his mount and I wouldn’t have mine. I’d be puttin’ myself into some kind of situation, and I was already in one out here on the wide-open plains without a healthy horse. I finally told myself that I’d inch my way in a little closer so that if they both appeared in full view at the same time I could blow Buffalo Skull’s head off and then run in with my pistol to finish off the Mexican.

  Well, I managed to inch my way in maybe a few more yards to where I was only ‘bout fifty feet from their fire, right there on ’em. After a couple of hours of damn near breathin’ down their necks, scared right down to my socks that I’d sneeze or cough and give myself away, that Mexican never showed. I figured he was back in some brush that I couldn’t see from my position. I knew daylight would be showin’ its head soon, so I had to give up on the idea of puttin’ these bastards out of their misery, and it pained me to accept it. Leastways, I began inchin’ my way backwards. I wanted to be a long ways from those worthless bastards come first light.

  I made my way back to Amigo and, by daylight, had managed to walk him maybe two miles farther east of where I’d staked him that night. I knew I shouldn’t walk him any farther. That horse needed at least four days’ rest to get the soreness out. I weren’t ’bout to ride or even walk him all the way back to Chisholm’s on a game hoof. I knew my immediate task was to find a good place for him and me to hole up, away from Buffalo Skull and away from those Cheyenne I’d seen earlier. Had I a choice, I’d have chosen to run up against those Cheyenne over Buffalo Skull. He was pure poison. Sittin’ there perched by his campfire that night, I was able to get a close-up look at that heathen sonofabitch. His eyes showed cruelty I couldn’t quite wrap my fingers around, and I wanted nothin’ to do with it.

  Leastways, me and Amigo found ourselves a nice little stand of cottonwoods along the South Canadian and made camp there for six days. Each one of those days spent there seemed like an eternity, as I was some worried our spot would be found out by either Buffalo Skull or those Cheyenne, or both, and me stuck out there with a lame horse. To be discovered with no chance of a clean getaway would surely top off my lifelong history of bad luck, I sat there thinkin’ at the time.

  Of a night, I’d sleep as light as one of them cottonwood puffs what floated across those plains, and, of a day, I stayed as jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs. It was all I could do to keep from goin’ stir crazy whilst thinkin’ of my vulnerable predicament. This crazy-ass edge to my nerves lasted the full six days we were there.

  The thought came to me that I could leave Amigo down there in that South Canadian country all by himself, freein’ me up to run and jog my way back to Chisholm’s. Hell, I knew I could run and jog at least twenty miles a day and be back there in no time at all. I told myself that Amigo would heal up and then probably do just fin
e for himself. Maybe he’d find himself a passel of wild mares out there on those wide-open plains, I thought, and busy himself for the rest of his life with bein’ their leader, fightin’ off other stallions what would try an’ encroach on his territory or his harem. Why, Amigo would be out there in a horse’s natural realm, I thought, with hundreds and thousands of miles of grass all around and ample water. He’d live out his life on those plains just as horses had been doin’ around there ever since those first Spaniards introduced ’em to this country hundreds of years before. Of course, this kind of thinkin’ was only the notion of a man so afraid of bein’ discovered out there by the wrong folks that he stayed on the verge of soilin’ his pants. In the light of day, I knew I wasn’t turnin’ that horse loose. Amigo would heal up in no time, and I knew I’d need him to get to those gold and silver fields out west.

  Of course, I just ’bout changed my mind ’bout lettin’ Amigo loose when I got a good scare in the early evenin’ of the fifth night. Whilst camped out there in that weak position, burdened with a gimped mount, I’d been makin’ a habit of keepin’ a sharp lookout on all sides of me – almost constantly. My thinkin’ was that it’s better to drain every hour of every day with keepin’ a good watch than be faced with a situation where I wouldn’t get another hour of life anyways. I’d been used to lookin’ out on the horizons for hours at a time, and usually seein’ nothin’ at all.

  Out there on the plains of that Indian Territory, the farthest away a body can ever hope to see is maybe a distance of eight miles, and then only if he’s perched on a rise with nothin’ but low country all around him. The problem is that there’s usually a good haze to obstruct any real view. It’s a haze put off by the scorchin’ heat and sunlight out there on them open plains. Now, when the sun starts goin’ down, and it’s late afternoon and gettin’ on to evenin’, with no direct sunlight on the ground below, a body can see a helluva lot better. And, sometimes of a day, when the sun goes behind the clouds, the view is a lot better. You suddenly see things under the shadows that you couldn’t see in the haze caused by the heat and sunlight.

  And that’s what happened. I saw movement off to the west, small dark specs amblin’ this way and that. I’ll be the first to tell you that a lightnin’ bolt of fear shot plumb through me when I first spied that movement. I ran over to Amigo and threw the blanket and saddle on his back. Hell, I was ready to go. For the last several days I’d kept all my jerked beef and supplies bunched up in the saddlebags for just this kind of quick getaway. I hopped on board Amigo and we made a hundred yards in a flash, and I was some comforted knowin’ his hoof soreness had healed up. Then a thought came over me. Hell, you stupid bastard, I told myself, why don’t you take one last look out there on that western horizon and see just what it is you’re runnin’ from. And that’s what I did.

  Once back to the campsite, Amigo and me sat there lookin’ off to the west, straight in the direction of where Buffalo Skull’s camp was some nights before. I was heartened by the fact that the movement wasn’t comin’ from the likes of Buffalo Skull, but from a herd of buffalo out there on those wide-open plains, the first such herd I’d ever seen.

  The small black dots had gotten closer and it was as plain as hell that they were buffalo and nothin’ else. My heart pounded with excitement. The fear that was bearin’ down on me only a few minutes before was overtaken by the exhilaration of the moment out there in western Indian Territory in the wanin’ months of 1865. I sat there atop Amigo for the longest time, watchin’ them buffalo meanderin’ this way and that. It seemed there was a big bull actin’ as leader of the herd, and the rest of them buffalo never seemed to get too far afield from the old grizzled and shaggy fellow. Sure, small bands of the larger herd would drift a couple hundred yards away from the bull and remain there for a time. Then, one of the members of the driftin’ band would soon notice they were farther away from the bull than they wanted to be, and then the whole band would quickly meander back into his immediate neighborhood.

  The big male’s full, black beard drug the ground as he foraged for grass. Off the back of the big bull, great tufts of hair hung by what looked like a thread and appeared as if they were ‘bout to fall off. His horns showed a dirty gray color. I’d reined in a mite closer to get a closer view whilst tryin’ not to startle the bunch. Soon, the bull was lyin’ down. The evenin’ still blew hot as the bull laid there. The massive sides of the old feller heaved in and out, as he appeared to be catchin’ his breath, and his great head swayed back and forth in rhythm. It was as if the bull was noddin’ a “no.” It looked as if they were settlin’ in for the night.

  I sat there admirin’ those shaggy monsters for what seemed like forever before the cool dark of the evenin’ made it impossible for me to see ’em any longer. I figured the sight of them buffalo was a fittin’ endin’ to my stay there, and well before first light the next mornin’, me and Amigo had put ten miles behind us.

  When I rode up to Chisholm’s a few days later, I was some surprised to see Red, my old horse that the Fields boy rode off as a decoy to help with my escape from the Federals, tied out front. I knew that bay was mine by the black colorin’ on his lower legs and ear edges. I was some overjoyed to see my Red, and I kept askin’ myself how he wound up here, hundreds of miles to the west of where I’d last seen him. I knew I’d find answers inside the tradin’ post, so inside I flew.

  Once I seen what was inside I only had more questions, for sittin’ there at the round wooden table near the west window facin’ the river, was Tickerneeskee, who’d been talkin’ with Chisholm. Tickerneeskee held my leather totem.

  Sittin’ in the chair next to Tickerneeskee was Little Doe.

  8 A Maiden’s Song

  I walked through the cabin door and Tickerneeskee looked up to me from where he sat at the table. He laughed.

  “You didn’t think you’d get out of Indian Territory without Red and your totem, did you? Now you have two good horses – Amigo and Red. Here, you forgot this.”

  Tickerneeskee threw me the totem. I held the leather in my hands, lookin’ it over, reminded of what it meant to me. It spoke of escapin’ from those Federals, and, more importantly, of the loyalty and friendship of those Cherokee folks. Now, here those Cherokees were again in my life, bringin’ me my horse and the leather memento of the wonderful time spent among ’em. One thing I noticed ’bout the totem was that it had been sewn against a thick piece of new leather to keep it from gettin’ tattered any further. I would carry it with me for the rest of my life.

  There also was Little Doe, and I couldn’t figure the reason for that. I looked into her eyes and she looked back into mine, neither of us sayin’ a word.

  “We arrived here this morning,” Tickerneeskee said. “When I told Little Doe about my plans to track you west to return your horse and totem, she insisted on coming. She wanted to see new country, and I couldn’t turn her down.”

  That made a kind of sense to me. It was said the folks of the Corn Tassel Clan were ones what hankered to see new country, folks like Sequoyah and Chisholm. Little Doe was of the same clan, so maybe the blood ran true. I looked over again at Little Doe and, this time, she lay asleep in her chair, no doubt exhausted from their day’s ride.

  I’ll be the first to tell you that, even on the first night of her return, Little Doe’s presence started to rekindle the fire I’d been tryin’ damned hard to forget. But, I told myself I’d make no move in her direction, havin’ tried that before with the same cursed luck that ran through my whole life story.

  No sir, I’d partner up with Tickerneeskee and we’d hunt the country hereabouts, just like we hunted that Cherokee country back near Tahlequah. I’d work to renew my good friendship with him and I’d continue to help Chisholm around his place in return for him puttin’ me up for the winter. I figured all of that would help to keep my mind off that beautiful, dark-eyed, dark-haired Cherokee princess. I hadn’t traveled these hundreds of miles to get tangled up in that kind of business again. The fa
r horizon called my name on the wind and my every move would be to answer it. Folks was happiest when they were free, I told myself, kind of like those buffalo I’d seen down there on the South Canadian. They weren’t hogtied to misery as they lived out their lives on the wide-open plains. They moved when they felt like movin’, had been for probably thousands of years, and what was good for them was good for me.

  So that was the lay of the land around Chisholm’s for what seemed like several weeks or more. There was work aplenty for all of us as we prepared for the comin’ winter. There was meat to dry, wood to cut, and the day-to-day chores such as fence mendin’ and care for the animals. Of course, there was also the pleasant distraction of talkin’ with the traders what happened through the doors on a given day. It was in that way that we’d hear the news of the outside world. Sometimes we’d hear of Buffalo Skull and another of his atrocities, and the stories would curdle the blood of the weak-hearted.

  One night in September, I stepped out to smoke a Mexican cigar a trader had given to me. Whilst I’ve never been a smoker, the thought that fall night of smokin’ a cigar sounded like a thing to do. A big orange harvest moon crowned the night sky, bedecked by an occasional wisp of cloud runnin’ in front. The air whispered soft, cool, and crisp. There’d been heavy rain upstream, so the North Canadian was full of enough water that the light chortlin’ sounds could be heard even from outside the tradin’ post.

  I hadn’t taken in the aroma of that cigar but for a few minutes before seein’ movement in the trees down by the water. I stood motionless for some time, cuppin’ the red end of the cigar in my hand in order to hide the light.

  On cat feet, I made my way closer to the river’s bank and to the area I’d seen the movement. Right soon, the would-be prowler proved to be Little Doe, as evidenced by her long coal-black hair shinin’ in the moonlight, and her deerskin dress. Soon, her voice began whisperin’ the same singsong ditty I’d heard her singin’ that day whilst she bathed in the Illinois River. I guess I’d never heard anything echoed quite as beautiful, so I remained hidden behind a cottonwood for a few minutes to absorb more of it.