Duel at Low Hawk

by Charles G. West

  John smiled. “Yeah, I reckon it is, especially since we’ve had rain for the last two days.” He turned and walked toward the cabin. “Come on inside. I think I’ve got a bottle around here somewhere.” He went to a tiny cupboard and took a bottle from the top shelf. From the lower shelf, he took a cup, then handed them both to Nate. “Help yourself. The judge didn’t say anything more about it?”

  Nate poured the cup half full. “Nope. But if I had to guess, I’d suspect it might have somethin’ to do with some trouble over in the Nations. Somebody sent word last week about some killin’s over on the Neosho.”

  Again, John nodded thoughtfully. “All right, I’ll get a few things together and ride back with you.” He cocked an eye at Nate. “I reckon Judge Parker gave you instructions to fetch me back with you.”

  “Well, yeah, I reckon,” Nate replied. Parker’s orders had specifically been to bring John Ward back right away, but Nate had been hesitant to suggest that to the deputy marshal. John Ward was not the kind of man you ordered to do anything.

  It didn’t take John long to get ready. He traveled light. Long accustomed to living off the land, he needed few supplies: flint and steel, some salt, some coffee, a frying pan, and a coffeepot. Usually he carried a supply of jerky and hardtack for times when game was scarce. His bedroll, being too bulky to carry behind his saddle, was left in the cabin in favor of one blanket. With his gear ready to pack, he whistled for his horse. Almost immediately, the buckskin gelding loped up from the river and appeared at the corner of the cabin. The two horses greeted each other with a series of low whinnies; then the buckskin John had named Cousin plodded obediently over to his master. John saddled the horse, walked over to pull the cabin door to, then stepped up on the buckskin.

  “Ain’tcha got no lock on that door?” Nate asked.

  John shrugged. “If somebody wants to get in that cabin while I’m gone, I’d prefer they didn’t break the door down.” He turned the buckskin’s head toward the trail and led them out to strike the road to Fort Smith.

  “Well, it appears Nate Simmons didn’t have any trouble finding you.” Judge Parker looked up from his desk when the open doorway was suddenly filled with the formidable figure of Deputy Marshal John Ward.

  “No, sir,” Ward replied. “I was at the cabin.”

  Parker motioned toward a chair. “John, I know you were planning to take a little time to do some hunting and fishing, but something’s come up and I need you to take care of it.”

  “Yes, sir,” was John’s simple reply, his face expressionless.

  Parker could not help but marvel at the man’s attitude. He had just recently returned after a month tracking down a gang of horse thieves over near the Cimarron River, in cooperation with the Osage native police. No sooner was he back than the judge had called upon him to bring in Rafe Wilson. The man deserved some time off, but Parker felt none of his other deputies were as qualified as John Ward for the job required. If John felt he was being taken advantage of, he gave no indication. But then, Parker reminded himself, the solemn deputy never showed any emotion to amount to anything.

  After John settled his imposing frame into one of the judge’s side chairs, Parker continued. “We’ve got a real wild one raising hell in the Nations, a killer, and I’m afraid he’s going to do a lot more if we don’t stop him. We know who he is, a half-breed Cherokee named Boot Stoner. He’s the son of Wendell Stoner and an Indian woman. Stoner ran a trading post on the Grand River in the Cherokee Nation. You most likely knew him.”

  “I did,” John answered, aware that the judge spoke of Wendell in past tense. He knew Wendell very well, and his wife, Morning Light. He had often stopped there when passing through that valley. They were good folks. He knew about their son Boot, but he had not been involved in the boy’s arrest. “Has somethin’ happened to Wendell?”

  “He and his Indian wife were murdered by their son.” He paused a moment to let John react to his words before continuing. “Boot Stoner was released from the penitentiary in Little Rock two weeks ago. He was supposed to report in here, but he failed to do so. He was identified by two Indians at his father’s store. They were certain it was the same boy who was sent away twelve years ago. The next day, another Indian went to the store and found Wendell and his wife dead.”

  “There was a daughter,” John said, “a young girl about fourteen or fifteen.”

  “She’s missing,” Parker replied. “At least, if he killed her, the body wasn’t found. I expect Boot must have taken her with him.” He paused again while John shook his head solemnly. “We found out also that a man and his wife and a little girl were murdered just outside of Little Rock on the same day Boot was released. Their home was on the road he most likely would have taken. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was not more of Boot’s work.” He gestured toward a map of Indian Territory behind him on the wall. “John, this savage has to be stopped. He’s leaving a bloody trail across the whole territory. He’s been out of prison for only two weeks, and already five people have been murdered and one young girl abducted. How soon can you ride?”

  “I reckon I can start out for Stoner’s trading post as soon as I leave here. I’ll need to pick up some extra cartridges for my rifle.”

  “Fine,” Parker said. “I knew I could count on you. I’ll give you a voucher for your ammunition.” He got to his feet and extended his hand. “And, John, you be damn careful.”

  “Yes, sir,” John replied softly.

  After riding a ferry across the Arkansas River, John Ward turned the buckskin west, making his way through the hill country known locally as Cookson Hills. Skirting Fort Gibson and the town of Tahlequah, he rode north up the Grand River valley, west of the Boston Mountains. It was better than sixty miles to Wendell Stoner’s trading post. John sighted the store late in the afternoon of the third day out.

  There was enough daylight left to take a look around Stoner’s house and store. He found a couple of fresh graves in a grove of cottonwood trees. Probably dug by the native police or friends of Wendell’s, he thought. Stoner’s store was about twelve miles from Tahlequah—the little town that had become the capital of the Cherokee Nation—and that was most likely where the Cherokee police had ridden from, since it was closer than Fort Gibson. The trading post was probably a little over eighteen miles from the army post. Fort Gibson was located on the same river as Stoner’s in an area the Cherokee called Muskogee, about three miles from the convergence of that river with the Arkansas and the Verdigris.

  John studied a set of tracks that led north along the river. They were fresher than the other tracks around the store: two horses, both carrying riders, or one rider and a packhorse. He felt fairly certain that this was the trail he was looking for. Glancing over his shoulder at the sun, which was almost resting on the distant hills, he knew his search would have to continue the next day.

  A hunter accustomed to riding alone, he methodically went about the routine of making his camp. Like any man who lived in the wild, he took care of his horse first, leading the buckskin down to the water to drink. Afterward, knowing that Wendell Stoner would not mind, especially now, he found some oats in the lean-to back of the corral and gave Cousin a generous measure. The horse was accustomed to surviving on prairie grass, so it was appreciative of the occasional treat. After Cousin was taken care of, John hobbled the horse and left it to graze while he gathered some wood for a fire. It wasn’t absolutely necessary to hobble the buckskin—the horse wouldn’t wander far— but John wanted it close in case he needed it in a hurry.

  He took a look around in the store in case there was anything useful left, but the shelves were stripped bare. No doubt the folks who buried Wendell and Morning Light had seen no reason to leave useful items on the shelves. “Ain’t nothin’ I really need, anyway,” he muttered and went down near the water to tend his fire. Instead of using Wendell’s cabin, he chose to camp outside in the open. After a meal of coffee and bacon, he rolled up in his blanket, using his saddle as a pil
low, and was soon asleep.

  His eyes blinked open, awakened by something. He wasn’t sure what. Feeling not fully awake, he nevertheless reacted automatically. Rolling over on his stomach, he pulled his rifle up close to him and waited, listening. He could see nothing moving in the darkness of the moonless night, but he knew something had jarred him from sleep. Then he heard his horse snort inquisitively, and he knew that was what had awakened him. The buckskin was aware of another horse nearby.

  After carefully freeing himself from his blanket, he rolled away from his saddle and the firelight. Once in the deeper darkness, he crawled up to the edge of the cottonwoods where Wendell and his wife were buried, and positioned himself where he could watch his camp. Long moments passed with no sign of anything moving. Then he caught sight of a shadow darting from one tree to another along the riverbank, making its way down to his fire.

  Waiting a few moments longer to make sure there was only one shadow in the trees, John rose silently and worked his way around behind his unannounced visitor. Following along in the intruder’s footsteps, he could now determine that it was a man, and appeared to be an Indian. He caught up to him just as the Indian pulled a knife from his belt and charged out into the firelight, heading for John’s saddle. Acting quickly, John kicked the Indian’s heel, causing him to stumble and fall face-first across the saddle. He rolled over at once, only to find himself staring into the muzzle of John’s Winchester.

  “Two Buck!” John exclaimed when he recognized the young Cherokee who sometimes worked for Wendell Stoner.

  “John Ward, don’t shoot!” the Cherokee pleaded. “I didn’t know it was you.”

  John lowered the rifle. “Hell, Two Buck, I’m not gonna shoot you. What the hell are you doin’ here?”

  Two Buck got to his feet and put the knife back in its sheath. “I saw your fire. I thought you were Boot maybe, come back. How you hear me, anyway?”

  “My horse,” John said, and tilted his head toward the buckskin. “He musta smelled yours back in the trees there.” He stepped past Two Buck and picked up a stick to poke up the fire. “What made you think Boot Stoner would be here in the middle of the night?”

  “I don’t know.” Two Buck shrugged. “I just thought I’d come back. I didn’t think anybody’d be here. Then I saw your fire. I’d like to kill that son of a bitch.”

  John studied the young man’s face for a moment. “You were the one that buried Wendell and Morning Light, weren’t you?” Two Buck nodded. John knew that Two Buck was quite fond of Wendell and his wife. Wendell had let him take care of the horses and do odd jobs around the store. Over the years since Boot had been in prison, Two Buck had become more of a son to Wendell than Boot had ever been. So it was little wonder the young man wanted to extract vengeance from the half-breed.

  After a long silence, during which Two Buck stared thoughtfully into the fire, he asked, “The soldiers send you to look for Boot?”

  John nodded, then said, “Well, no, not the soldiers. Judge Parker sent me to get him.”

  Two Buck looked up anxiously into John’s face. “Let me go with you. I can help you track.”

  “I don’t know.” John hesitated. He usually worked alone, but the earnest pleading in the young man’s eyes was hard to reject. “I ain’t used to workin’ with anybody, and there ain’t no tellin’ how long this is gonna take.”

  “I don’t care how long it takes,” Two Buck insisted. “We gotta find him.”

  “Well, all right,” John relented. “You can go till you start gettin’ in my way, I reckon.”

  “I won’t get in your way, John Ward. I’ll help you.”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” John replied, already wondering if he had made a poor decision. He suspected that Two Buck was more concerned with rescuing Lilly than he was over punishing Wendell’s murderer. “We’ll start at first light. Now, dammit, I need to get some sleep.”

  “They’re headed for Mr. Mashburn’s place,” Two Buck remarked after he and John had followed the obvious trail left by Boot and his captive for half a day.

  “Looks that way,” John agreed. He had met Jacob Mashburn once when riding through the Nations, but he really didn’t know the man.

  They continued on for the better part of two hours, following the tracks of two horses before first sighting the flock of buzzards in the distance. That doesn’t look good, John thought. There must have been twenty or more of the grisly birds forming a macabre cloud just beyond a line of trees by the river. Once they passed the trees, they saw the burned-out ruins of Mashburn’s house and the cause for the great gathering of scavenger birds. It was a feast on a grand scale and, by this time, almost finished. There were carcasses strewn about the corral and outbuildings, most of them cattle, some mules, all of them almost totally devoid of flesh. Closer to the house, John spotted the remains of Jacob and his wife, already little more than skeletons, their clothes ripped and shredded by the sharp beaks and claws of the screeching diners.

  John and Two Buck were stopped cold for a few long seconds, repulsed by the grisly scene before them. Too late to rescue the Mashburns’ bodies from the indignity of their fate, there was little point in attempting to end the ghastly feast. In fact, the banquet had gone on for so long and grown so in intensity that the two riders were the intruders, and the brazen birds were not inclined to retreat. The most the two trackers could do was to rescue the remains of Jacob and his wife and carry them down behind the ruins of their house for burial. It was a grim and pitiful funeral for the man and wife, amid a chorus of screeching and screaming buzzards in place of hymns by a choir.

  “That’s about all we can do for them,” a somber John Ward said when the grave was finished. He didn’t comment on it, but he was thinking that Boot Stoner had a bloodlust that went beyond burning and looting. He suspected the half-breed had begun killing for the sheer satisfaction it brought him. If that was the case, John feared that anyone in Boot’s path had just been served a death warrant. He was afraid there was a mad dog loose who was going to leave a bloody trail across the territory. “We’re done here,” he said to Two Buck. “Look for a trail outta here.”

  As before, there was no effort on Boot Stoner’s part to cover his trail. It would have been difficult to hide at any rate, even as old as it was. Two horses, two mules, and what appeared to be a cow left a clear path away from the Mashburn ranch, leading toward the mountains east of the river. Feeling a renewed urgency, John started out at an easy lope with Two Buck close behind.

  The half-breed’s trail led them up into the mountains, following a stream that led to a small meadow. Here Boot had made camp and butchered the cow. From the evidence left behind, he had remained there for two or three days before leaving the mountains again and striking out to the northwest.

  John paused to watch Two Buck as the young Cherokee studied the sign left in the campsite. Meticulously examining every scrap of evidence—footprints, bent twigs, disturbed brush and grass—the young man was trying anxiously to create a picture in his mind. After watching for a while, John expressed the thought that Two Buck was wrestling with. “ ’Pears she’s still alive,” he said softly.

  Two Buck flushed, embarrassed that his thoughts were so obvious. “Looks that way,” he replied, reluctant to say more even though it was apparent that John Ward saw through his attempt to feign indifference. “That son of a bitch needs killin’ bad. The Stoners were decent people.”

  “That’s a fact,” John said. He hesitated for a moment, deciding whether or not to say more. Then he advised, “I know it ain’t good to think about, but there’s no tellin’ what kind of condition we’re likely to find Lilly in, even if she’s still alive. You’d best not get your hopes up too high.”

  In the saddle again, they followed Boot’s trail out of the hills. After reaching the valley once more, John pulled up and searched the land before him. “The way he’s heading, he’ll strike the Neosho again.” It was anybody’s guess where Boot was going. Maybe Boot didn’t know himse
lf, but if he continued in the same direction, he’d soon end up in Kansas. The fact that Kansas was out of John’s jurisdiction bothered the lawman not in the least. When it came to hunting down a mad dog, John did not concern himself with legal boundaries. If he had to go to Canada to get Boot, that was where he would go.

  Chapter 4

  Boot Stoner pulled his horse to a stop and paused to look at the railroad tracks before him. They had not been there the last time he had ridden through this part of the territory with Billy Sore Foot and Henry Dodge. He took a few moments to speculate upon the tracks, wondering where they went. Finally, he turned to Lilly, sitting patiently on her pony behind him. “You know about this railroad?”

  Rolling baleful eyes in his direction, she answered. “It’s the MKT,” she replied dutifully. Much as a mustang horse is broken, Lilly had been brutally broken over the past two weeks. Resigned to the cruel use of her body, and learning well the lesson that resistance brought savage punishment, she had reconciled herself to her new existence as Boot Stoner’s property.

  “MKT?” Boot questioned.

  “Missouri, Kansas, and Texas Railroad,” she explained.

  Boot thought about that for a few moments. “Well, I’ll be . . .” he mused. “So if we go that way,” he said, pointing down the tracks to the south, “we’d end up in Texas.” Then he gazed in the other direction. “If we go that way, we’d end up in Missouri.” He scratched his head then as if amazed. “Well, I’ll be . . .” he said again, and kicked his horse into motion, crossing over the tracks and continuing in a westerly direction. She followed without a word from him, the pack mules on a line behind her.

  Boot had a notion to go to Kansas, but he was not figuring on following the railroad. Railroads spawned towns and telegraphs, and he deemed it healthier for him to stay away from telegraphs. He had no doubt that the law was already on to him, so he planned to stay away from the big towns and ride the wild country. Kansas remained in his mind, but first he was going to Jackrabbit Creek to see if he could hook up with Billy Sore Foot. While in prison at Little Rock, he had talked to a man who knew Billy. The man had said that Billy had managed to evade the law and gone back to Jackrabbit. Billy was a couple of years older than Boot. He wondered if Billy had changed as much as he had. It would be real interesting to see his old partner again.