Hawk Eyes

by David Althouse

  My first instinct was to light out of there like Satan himself was on my ass, and I just ‘bout did. Somethin’ held me back. I stood there for a while and kind of calmed down. After a bit, my heart quit poundin’ and the world seemed to stop spinnin’. I looked over at the Mexican and he was just barely hangin’ on. I gave thought to finishin’ him off right there, but decided against it, as I’d have to shoot him and that would take precious ammo.

  No sir, I decided to sit right down and think things over a mite, to collect my thoughts, but mostly to go through the Mexican’s things to see if he had anything I needed. And he sure did. Fact, he had himself a nice Henry rifle that I appropriated right there on the spot. I surely needed that Henry. The Henry rifle was the best rifle on the frontier up until the Winchester 66 came out. The Winchester 66 would be comin’ out soon, and I would one day own and use one, but right then I knew that Henry was goin’ to suit me just fine. Fact, that Henry surely beat the hell out of my 1853 Enfield and the heavy, bulky, single-shot Sharps, and I gave some thought to just leavin’ both firearms out there on those lonely plains so’s I wouldn’t have to carry ’em around any longer.

  The issue of whether or not to keep those rifles worked itself out with no doin’ from me. When I got to lookin’ around at my camp, I soon saw that the Mexican had slammed both my Enfield and my Sharps over a rock, warpin’ ’em both to hell, and renderin’ ’em nothin’ but dead weight. My pistols were still in good shape, but the ammo had been removed and I couldn’t find ’em anywhere. The Mexican had more than likely thrown ’em out on the plains in one of his fits of rage. I cursed myself for the bad luck!

  The one thing that consoled me is that the Mexican had left me his Henry. I immediately went to lookin’ for his ammo stash. I looked high and low and there was no Henry ammo to be found. That stupid Mexican had run out of .44 rimfire cartridges, except for the few cartridges what were still in the fifteen-cartridge magazine! So, I went to look for any side arms he might’ve had. There were none. That stupid bastard was all alone out there on the plains with nothin’ but a Henry rifle and a handful of cartridges in its magazine. I figured the Mexican must’ve got cross ways with Buffalo Skull and had been intentionally left behind with nothin’ but the rifle and the scant number of cartridges. The more I thought ‘bout it, the more it looked as if the Mexican had been booted out of the band because of bein’ stone-cold stupid.

  There this Mexican was, out there all alone with just a Henry and a few cartridges, and then he goes and ruins my Sharps and tosses all of my pistol rounds, which he could’ve kept for himself! It was as plain as day that there weren’t much betwixt his ears. I asked myself, why didn’t Buffalo Skull just kill him, like he killed the Indian that night some months back? I didn’t have an answer to that and never would. I chalked it up to the fact that Buffalo Skull was a low-down murderin’ skunk whose life made no kind of sense anyways.

  As it turned out, the only weapon of mine the Mexican didn’t destroy or render useless was my Bowie, which I found strapped to his saddle with a piece of leather. I took it. I’d always heard that Mexicans loved a good knife, and findin’ that he’d stashed away my Bowie gave me to believe it.

  So, there I was out there on the plains with nothin’ for protection and killin’ but a Henry rifle with three cartridges and my Bowie.

  Right then, I was rememberin’ somethin’ I’d been told ‘bout the newly-acquired Henry, and that was to make sure and keep its magazine from gettin’ dirty or else it might jam, and that’s the last thing I’d ever need to happen.

  I looked that Henry over real good, and despite the fact I felt crippled from the Mexican’s hellish beatin’s and my ammo shortage, felt a smile curl up on my face over the new and better weapon. Right then, I decided to go through the rest of the Mexican’s things just to make sure I wasn’t leavin’ anything important behind. It turned out he didn’t have even one more thing I wanted or needed.

  Havin’ appropriated the Mexican’s Henry, and then findin’ my Bowie, I ran over to Amigo and checked to make sure his saddle was still secure on his back. It was. The last thing needin’ done before leavin’ was to unsaddle the Mexican’s horse and shoo it on its way, and that’s just what I did. It wouldn’t have felt right leavin’ the animal out there on those endless plains burdened with saddle and bridle.

  So, I boarded Amigo once again, cursed myself for the bad luck what straddled me on the first day of my hunt, and took out once again. Me and Amigo took off in the same direction as before, and that was to the westward, on the trail of Buffalo Skull. This time I would make sure to sleep with one eye open every night out there under those starry skies.

  We were on the trail once again, me and Amigo, and all I had for fightin’ was a Henry with three cartridges and a good knife. My memory of Little Doe said I would keep up the hunt, that I would kill Buffalo Skull if my own life was spent in the doin’ of it.

  My mind was mullin’ everything over as we went. The more I thought ‘bout it, the more I knew my original plan of action against Buffalo Skull was still a good one. What I wanted to do was some middle-of-the-night hit-and-run stuff. Yes sir, I believed I could still carry out the plan with just three rounds in the Henry and the Bowie. I intended to kill that wicked sonofabitch and was ridin’ hell-bent to do just that, my heart and mind laden with the memory of my sweet Little Doe.

  We took it at an easy gait, me and Amigo. I needed the rest, and I figured I couldn’t think enough ‘bout just what exactly I’d do when we finally come up on Buffalo Skull and whoever was left in his band.

  That day came just a few days later. We’d traversed mile after mile of sagebrush country out there in the western edge of the Indian Territory until, on one late afternoon a few hours from sundown, we saw a trail of smoke swirlin’ its way up through the cottonwoods along the Washita River some miles distant.

  My heart commenced to poundin’ and the hair on the back of my neck prickled up with the thought of a good reckonin’ out there amongst all that sagebrush and cottonwood country! Oh, how I wanted to kill them gnarly, stinkin’ bastards! I pulled Amigo up short so’s not to get within sight of my prey and give ourselves away. No sir, we’d stay east of their campsite a good distance and move in at dark. We’d take a good look at the situation and see if I could go at ’em as planned. I knew I’d be one against several, and that I’d be out-gunned, but I knew I’d have the advantage of surprise. They surely believed they were all alone out there along the banks of the Washita and that ol’ Hawk Eyes was nowhere around for miles.

  Right soon, the whole world thereabouts was pitch dark and great thunderclouds commenced movin’ in. I knew right then to make my move and to do it quick. If I was goin’ to get a good look at their camp and size up their numbers and such, I would need the light of their campfire to help me. It sure looked like an early spring thunderstorm was hellin’ its way in and would put an end to their campfire. I staked Amigo to a clump of sagebrush and jogged the two or three miles to Buffalo Skull’s camp, carryin’ the Henry in one hand and the Bowie in another, switchin’ off when one arm tired of the Henry’s weight. I couldn’t run a quarter of a mile these days, but back then I could run all day and all night. I inhaled the wind in great gulps and my legs felt as if they could run all the way to California.

  I got in close, snakin’ my way through the cottonwoods, keepin’ low to the ground, and makin’ sure to make no sound at all. Of a sudden, I was right next to their camp. Their fire crackled, popped, and lit up everything just as pretty as could be.

  There was three of ’em, Buffalo Skull and two Indians, Comanche or Kiowa by the look. The three of ’em stood lookin’ into the fire, and the sight of ’em doin’ that tickled me good. Lookin’ into a fire at night compromises a man’s sight when he looks away from the fire of a sudden, and that worked to my favor.

  ‘Bout fifteen feet behind ’em was a huge cottonwood around which they’d propped three rifles. Two holsters, each holdin’ a single sidearm, hu
ng on a low lyin’ branch of the same tree. I made a picture of that in my mind and kept it there. The only one wearin’ a sidearm was one of the Indians! I found that surprisin’, but I figured they was thinkin’ to be all alone out there and not worryin’ ’bout such things as an ambush in the middle of the night.

  The same thunderstorm edgin’ its way to Buffalo Skull’s camp must’ve filled the rivers and creeks upstream because my ears could hear the swellin’ waters of the Washita, normally a low-runnin’ river, chortle and chuckle along at a swift and loud clip. That gave me a good feelin’, because the sound of the swift-runnin’ water would help cover any sounds I might make whilst stalkin’ in and around the camp. I could tell by the sound of the river that its waters were runnin’ swift and deep.

  ’Bout that time, I saw where they kept their horses. My eyes made out the outlines of three mounts tied ’bout thirty feet behind the cottonwood where they’d propped their rifles and hung their sidearms. I snaked my way to the horses, ever quiet-like, and untied ’em.

  Right soon, thunder boomed, lightnin’ flashed, and rain fell to the ground like it was bein’ poured down from giant buckets. I noticed that the campfire went out just as fast. Without even thinkin’ ’bout it, I ran to where the rifles lay propped against the cottonwood, grabbed ’em up in all of the confusion, along with the two holsters and the sidearms they carried, and flew out of there just as quickly as I flew in, scatterin’ their horses as I went. I guess my mind kind of knew I’d best move fast right at that moment, and that’s just what I did. The only problem was that, in all of the fast-movin’ action, I ran smack dab into the muddy, slippery banks of the Washita and fell straight into its rushin’, swellin’ waters, losin’ every rifle and sidearm but my own to the swift runnin’ river.

  I clawed my way up the muddy banks on the other side of the river, and found myself standin’ within several tall clumps of sagebrush. I hunkered down right there so’s to size up everything. I took a look across the river and tried to spot movement, but didn’t see any right off. I’d one advantage – there was a river betwixt me and them; and I could surely spot them if they tried to wade their way across it to my location. Of course, they could head up or down stream a ways and then circle back for me. That thought was disconcertin’.

  I just sat still and kept my eyes on those nearby banks on the opposite side of my location. After ’bout thirty minutes of waitin’, something emerged on the water ’bout twenty yards downstream, a black shadow of a figure against the shine of the flowin’ water. I aimed the sights of the Henry on that shadow and fired.

  The thud of the round slammin’ against flesh sounded in the roar of the rain, and just as sudden I heard a scream. One was down or wounded, and I had no way of knowin’ whether it was Buffalo Skull or one of his two other men. My thinkin’ at the time was that Buffalo Skull would send his men out to find me at first, so’s to protect his own ass. Of course, that was guesswork. I was hopin’ that the fellow I’d just shot and sent floatin’ down the Washita was the Indian with the sidearm. If that was my Indian, then there was Buffalo Skull and the other Indian left, and they were without firearms of any kind unless they’d a stash I hadn’t seen.

  Only two rounds remained in the Henry. There I was crouched in the pourin’ rain, two cartridges left in the Henry, my Bowie danglin’ by a strip of leather tied to my belt buckle, with two snaky bastards out there layin’ for me. I could’ve felt sorry for myself, but I kept tellin’ myself that I’d one round for each of ’em.

  It dawned on me real quick after that shot to move to another spot, as I’d given away my location when I fired the Henry. I crawled in the mud for ’bout forty yards to my left and found myself in a place that I figured was directly across the river from Buffalo Skull’s camp. I kept lookin’ straight through the pourin’ rain to where the campfire had been, but didn’t see one damn thing. The smoke from the fire had long since been blown out on the plains, but the smell of the wet coals remained. Smellin’ those wet coals gave me to know the camp was directly across the river from me.

  My guess was that they thought I’d moved on out of there and pronto, usin’ the rain and thunder and lightnin’ as cover. Fact, that’s what most men would’ve done after stealin’ the bulk of their weapons and then killin’ or surely woundin’ one of the three. Most men would tell themselves that was good enough work for one night, skedaddle on out of the area, and choose to fight another day. So I stayed put, figurin’ that one of the remainin’ two, thinkin’ I’d left out, would make a move.

  For a short spell there were two cottonwoods on the opposite banks grabbin’ my attention. I could make out the ancient trunks of both trees, large at the bottom, smaller as they reached upward, with all of their many branches at the top. Despite the darkness and pourin’ rain, the two tree trunks stood out clear enough for me to notice the dark bulk what appeared betwixt ’em. It didn’t take a schoolteacher to figure that the shadow had to be one of the two I was after. Lookin’ down the barrel of that Henry, as best I could in the darkness and rain, I squeezed off the second to last shot I had, and the boom echoed in the night. The dark bulk of a shadow fell, no longer standin’ vertical, but layin’ horizontal.

  I figured I’d bucked the odds all I could that night. It was time to get the hell out of there, and I did, runnin’ down the banks of the Washita at a good clip, crossin’ back over when I was far enough away from where all the action had been. I was soakin’ wet, but that didn’t stop me from runnin’ like a deer back to where I’d staked Amigo.

  Once I’d boarded Amigo, we headed east a few miles and made a dry camp. I’ll be the first to tell you I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Sure, my heart was still poundin’ from all the excitement, and I still felt the exhilaration from a good night of fun, but the fact is I chose not to fall asleep. I wasn’t closin’ my eyes for two seconds whilst there was one of ’em left.

  Whoever was left out there in that darkness was hatin’ my guts right ’bout then. I’d come up on ’em in the night and took out two of their three, and I’d made a good escape, without so much as a scratch. The survivin’ member of the band was fit to be tied over my audacity, and he knew he wasn’t safe of a night if I was allowed to live. He had to kill me, and pronto. If it was Buffalo Skull who survived, then I could triple the trouble I faced at that moment. He was a crazy sonofabitch, an evil rattlesnake, pure poison.

  The sun came up at my back the next mornin’ as I looked for any kind of movement off to the west. Hours passed and I just waited. From time to time, I would stand and look all around, tryin’ to detect movement. There were a couple of times that I hopped up on Amigo and stood up in the stirrups to get a better view of things as I scoured the surroundin’ landscape. Then I decided to get Amigo out of the open area where I stood and hide him off in a thick stand of cottonwoods a few hundred yards away. The reason I did that is to keep my means of makin’ dust safe from long rifle shots. I got back out in the open area so’s to keep a good lookout of my backtrail.

  The time came when I caught a dark speck of movement way off to the west, perhaps as far as five miles from my location. I studied on that speck for the longest time, tryin’ to make sense of it. It became clear I was lookin’ at a live human bein’, and it didn’t take much sense to figure it was the survivin’ third man of Buffalo Skull’s band. Whichever one of the three it was, he’d been successful at catchin’ up one of their horses. It also became clear he was followin’ Amigo’s tracks straight to me. I kept my eyes peeled on the movin’ speck until it weren’t a speck no more. The speck kept gainin’ in size until I knew damn well I was lookin’ at Buffalo Skull. He came in a little closer toward me and I noticed he weren’t wearin’ any sidearms and he wasn’t carryin’ a rifle. That meant he aimed to take me with his bare hands or with a concealed knife. I’d no way of knowin’. Leastways, when he got in to almost two hundred yards from me, I decided it was a good time to try firin’ the last cartridge in my new Henry. I was a shade anxious ’bo
ut spendin’ that last cartridge, but I also knew there’d never be another bastard more deservin’ of it than Buffalo Skull.

  I said a little prayer to the Great Spirit to help that Henry not jam up because of a dirty magazine, because I’d no idea how well that Mexican had taken care of the weapon.

  Anyhow, I rested the barrel over some thick sagebrush stalks and lined everything up real nice. I had those sights just where I wanted ’em. I’d never test-fired the rifle to see if it shot high or low, and I wasn’t countin’ the shootin’ of the night before. That’d been blind shootin’ and some good luck on my part. My finger rested against the trigger, but just barely. When it was time to put the bastard down, I’d just gently squeeze that trigger real easy like. The time came and that’s just what I did, with the boom of the rifle fillin’ an otherwise sweet and peaceful mornin’.

  By damned if I didn’t miss that gnarly sonofabitch outright and down his horse! Buffalo Skull somersaulted off his back and hit the ground runnin’. The horse lay behind him as he started runnin’ at me afoot. He weren’t goin’ to let bein’ horseless stop him from takin’ me out, and I could tell by the look on his face that he was some determined.

  My mistake was in not lettin’ him get in a little closer before firin’ that last round. I wasn’t familiar with that Henry and shouldn’t have taken a chance on the gun not bein’ sighted right. My last cartridge had to count and I’d just went and squandered it! To make matters worse, when I didn’t line the sights of that Henry on Buffalo Skull and fire again, he knew just as sure as hell that I was out of rifle ammo. Now, he knew it was just him and me, and that at best I might have as much as a pistol for a weapon. Of course, he’d find out soon enough that I didn’t have even that. All I had was my Bowie, and I wasn’t aimin’ to let him know of that.