Duel at Low Hawk

by Charles G. West

  There might have been new railroad tracks splitting the Cherokee Nation, but Jackrabbit Creek had not changed since Boot had seen it over twelve years ago. It was still a cluster of four shacks, two on either side of the creek at a point where it took a sharp turn back on itself, reminding one of a jackrabbit’s hind leg. A half dozen dogs started barking when Boot and Lilly were still a hundred yards away, and a few children who were playing on the creek bank stopped to look their way.

  Boot continued toward the first of the four shacks, walking his horse slowly up to a rickety porch that had separated from the front of the house at one end. The barrel of a rifle was just barely showing in the dark interior of the doorway. “That you, Billy?” Boot sang out as he pulled up to the porch.

  “Who wants to know?” The reply came back from the dark.

  “You sure as hell got cranky since I saw you last,” Boot responded with a wide grin.

  A stocky man with a large head stepped out onto the porch, still holding the rifle before him. Dark, brooding eyes searched the face of his visitor from under heavy woolly eyebrows. There were a few moments when nothing was said, then, “Boot? Is that you?”

  “Ain’t nobody else.”

  “Well, I’ll be go to hell!” He propped the rifle inside the door and walked out to shake Boot’s hand. “I swear, if you ain’t a sight for sore eyes. Hell, I figured you’d rot inside that damn prison. Step down and come on in. I reckon I might be able to find a little somethin’ to cut the dust.” He stepped back as if to take a broader look, staring first at Lilly, then at the two pack mules loaded with supplies taken from Jacob Mashburn’s ranch. “Yessir,” he allowed, “you’re a welcome sight, all right. I see you got yourselfa little gal, too. Looks like you ain’t wasted no time. When did you get out?”

  “A couple of weeks ago,” Boot answered as he threw a leg over and slid down from the saddle. “This place looks like it’s seen some hard times,” he said. As he dismounted, other faces appeared in the doorways of the other three shacks, but no one came outside. Turning to look at Lilly, Boot said, “Get down, girl.”

  Billy’s eyes never left the young girl as she obeyed Boot’s order. “Damn,” Billy said, “she’s a pretty little thing.”

  “Creek,” Boot stated, “and she belongs to me.”

  “Creek don’t make no difference to me. She’s a pretty little thing.” A malicious smile spread across his leering face when Boot cocked his head back and frowned. “Don’t go gettin’ your back up,” Billy said. “I’m just lookin’, that’s all.” He stepped up on the porch and waited. “Come on in the house. This sure as hell calls for a drink.”

  Boot tied the horses to the porch post, leaving the mules to stand on the lead rope tied to Lilly’s saddle. While the horses were being tied, Billy walked over to the edge of the porch and called to the shack next door. “Henry! It’s Boot Stoner.”

  Almost immediately, a thin, gaunt man with a full beard stepped out, holding a shotgun. “Well, damn me, Boot Stoner,” Henry Dodge exclaimed, as surprised to see the half-breed as Billy Sore Foot had been. He stepped off the low stoop and walked across the dirt yard between the two shacks. “Howdy, Boot.” Boot took his hand and they shook. Henry turned to Billy then and said, “The last time I seen you, you was hightailin’ it across that ridge after we split up with them cattle.”

  “That’s a fact,” Boot allowed, thinking to himself that if he had not chosen to split with the rest of the gang, he might not have been the only one who got caught.

  The same thought must have occurred to Henry because he remarked, “It’s a damn shame you was the only one they could pin that job on. But them’s the breaks.”

  “Yeah, them’s the breaks, all right,” Boot replied sullenly. “Twelve years’ worth of breaks.”

  Seeing the tone of conversation going sour, Billy spoke up. “Yeah, it’s a damn shame, but there weren’t nothin’ nobody could do about it. And you’re out now, and don’t look no worse for wear, so come on in and let’s have a drink.” He flashed Boot a wide grin. “Yessir, ol’ Boot’s back.” He nudged Henry playfully. “And got him a woman.”

  “I see he has,” Henry said, having already looked Lilly over thoroughly. Older than Billy, the sap no longer rose as high in Henry, nor as often, as it had in years past. Still, he liked to look at fair young women. And Lilly was the fairest and youngest female seen around Jackrabbit Creek for quite some time.

  Inside the house, Lilly was subjected to additional scrutiny, although this time it was devoid of admiration. Next to a small stove in the kitchen, Rena Big Dog stood, stoically watching her husband’s guests. A Cherokee, Rena did not like Creeks, and she had heard through the open door when Boot remarked that Lilly was Creek. Being fat and past thirty, Rena was also unfriendly toward slim young women, white or Indian, especially when they caused a certain gleam in her husband’s eye.

  “Fetch me the bottle,” Billy ordered. Her sullen expression unchanging, Rena did as she was told. She reached in a cupboard and produced a half-empty bottle. Placing it on the table, she then got three cups from the same cupboard, all the while keeping an accusing eye upon Lilly. “Set yourselves down, gents,” Billy said cheerfully. “We’ll drink to havin’ ol’ Boot back.”

  The half bottle of whiskey was soon emptied while they sat around the table. The talk was mostly about the state of things in the territory since Boot had been away. “Things has been pretty hard around here lately,” Henry summed up. “We ain’t been doin’ as many jobs as we used to—gettin’ old, I reckon. We hit a few farmers in Kansas, and two banks that kept us in high cotton for a while, but not much lately. Mostly, we’ve been holed up back here in the Nations.”

  Boot tossed back the remaining whiskey in his cup and set it on the table. He was not particularly pleased with the conversation. He had come seeking out his old partners, expecting to pick up where they had left off before he was caught by the law. Now, sitting around this table, all he seemed to hear from Billy and Henry was talk of lying low, afraid of the army at Fort Gibson and afraid of the new judge at Fort Smith. Growing more and more disgusted, he finally asked, “When was the last time you went out on a job?”

  Billy shrugged and looked at Henry. “Hell, I don’t know. I reckon three, maybe four weeks ago. When did we steal them cows over in Oswego, Henry?”

  “I expect it was a month ago,” Henry replied.

  Boot frowned. His old partners had obviously lost the nerve or the inclination. He quickly decided he had wasted his time in coming here. “Anybody else ride with you?”

  “Virgil and Lem,” Billy answered. When Boot raised a questioning eyebrow, Billy explained. “They live in them two houses across the creek, Virgil Potts and his half-wit cousin, Lem Stokes. They joined up with me and Henry not long after you left—set up in them two old shacks across the creek.”

  While the three men sat around the table talking, Lilly sat down on a stool in the corner of the shack, trying to attract as little attention to herself as possible. As cruel as Boot was, she feared more for her safety in the presence of these two vile-looking fugitives. When Billy Sore Foot commanded Rena to prepare some food, Lilly was afraid not to offer to help. However, the scowl she received from the Cherokee woman was enough to make her withdraw to her stool again. “Don’t let her scare you, honey,” Billy said, chuckling. “She don’t like seein’ no sweet young thing traipsin’ around her kitchen.” When Boot cocked an eye in response to Billy’s comment, Billy laughed again. “I swear, Boot, you get your back up ever’ time I look at that gal. I don’t mean no harm. Hell, me and Henry’s got a little job planned that you might wanna come along on.”

  “What kinda job?” Boot asked, only partially interested.

  “We’ve been keepin’ an eye on a little settlement over in Kansas—Oswego. Last time we was over that way, lookin’ for livestock, we couldn’t help noticin’ how much that little town has growed. And there’s a feller built a general store on the south end that sure looks mig
hty prosperous. Right, Henry?” Henry nodded emphatically. Billy continued. “Me and Henry is of a mind to pay that store a little visit. Hell, that man’s bound to be packin’ money away. There ain’t no other place around for folks to buy their goods.”

  “They got a bank over there?” Boot asked.

  “Nah. Town ain’t big enough to have a bank yet,” Henry answered. “That’s why we’re pretty sure the owner of that store must have all the money in town.”

  “Them other two fellers you mentioned—are they figurin’ in on this deal?”

  “Well, sure,” Henry replied. “Lem and Virgil is part of the gang.”

  Boot considered it for only a few moments. It seemed like a mighty small job to be split five ways. “I expect not,” he decided. “I’ll be better off by myself.”

  Billy threw the empty whiskey bottle out the door. “Hell, you can at least think it over for a minute or two before you say no.” He turned then to his partner. “We need some more whiskey. We got a lotta talkin’ to do. Henry, why don’t you go see if Virgil’s got some?” When Henry started to get up, Billy stopped him with a wink of his eye. “Never mind. Hell, I’ll go myself.”

  Using a felled tree as a footbridge, Billy Sore Foot crossed over the creek and, without knocking, walked into one of the cabins. “What the hell . . . ?” Virgil Potts exclaimed, his bare backside shining as he labored between the ample thighs of an Indian woman.

  “Get up from there, Virgil,” Billy said. “We got bigger fish to fry.” He went straight to the cupboard while Virgil extricated himself from the massive embrace of his woman.

  Not without a sense of humor, Virgil replied, “There ain’t many fish bigger’n Sally Red Beads. I was about finished, anyway.”

  “Where’s your likker?” Billy asked, then found it on the top shelf. Grabbing the bottle, he asked, “You know who’s settin’ over at my table right now?”

  “Who?” Potts asked.

  “Boot Stoner.”

  “Who?” Potts repeated.

  “Boot Stoner. I told you about Boot—used to ride with us till the law caught him. He just got outta prison over in Arkansas.”

  “Well, what the hell do I care?” Virgil asked. “What’s he want, anyway? You ain’t askin’ him to throw in with us, are you?” He rolled over and sat on the edge of the cot. “We ain’t hardly got enough to share as it is.”

  “See, that’s the thing,” Billy said with a grin. “Boot don’t wanna join up with us. But he come ridin’ up with two pack mules loaded down and a young gal. I’m thinkin’ we could use all that stuff. Includin’ the gal,” he added with a wink. “I say to hell with him if he don’t wanna join up with us.”

  Virgil was immediately intrigued by the suggestion. “What if he don’t wanna share his stuff with us?”

  “Share it?” Billy replied. “Hell, I ain’t talkin’ about sharin’ nothin’. Boot Stoner ain’t likely to share nothin’, anyway. We’re gonna have to kill him.”

  Virgil considered that possibility for a moment, then said, “Oh . . . well that makes sense then.”

  “We’ll most likely be doin’ the law’s work for ’em, anyway,” Billy said, the grin returning to his swarthy face. “From the trail he’s left between here and Arkansas, I’d be surprised if there ain’t a lawman on his tail already, and leading right to us.” With the whiskey bottle in his hand, he started for the door. “Get Lem and come on over to my place.”

  Back inside Billy’s cabin, Henry Dodge had been trying to convince Boot to reconsider his decision to move on. He had caught the significance of Billy’s wink when he left to get more whiskey, and his mind was running in the same groove as Billy’s. Two pack mules of goods was a helluva lot for a man just out of the hoosegow. Like Billy, Henry was itching to see what was in those packs. Boot was adamant in his decision, however, and there was no amount of talking on Henry’s part that could make him change his mind. He was preparing to take his leave when Billy returned with the whiskey.

  “Here we go!” Billy sang out cheerfully as he walked in the door, waving the whiskey bottle. He set the bottle down hard in the middle of the table. “Let’s have a drink to the good ol’ days before Judge Parker came to Fort Smith.” He filled the glasses. “Virgil and Lem will be here in a minute or two. They’re good boys. Lem Stokes is a little tetched in the head, but he’s handy to have around when you need an extra gun. He don’t shit without Virgil tellin’ him to. Virgil’s right as rain, though.”

  Seeing no need in turning down one more drink, Boot sat down again.

  One drink led to another, with most of the talking done by Billy Sore Foot, and mostly about the good ol’ days when Boot was just a wild kid, and the three of them were the principal hell-raisers in the Cherokee Nation. The reunion was joined by Virgil Potts and Lem Stokes after the second round. They both nodded to Boot and favored him with wide smiles. Boot paid little attention to the pair, responding with a brief nod before returning his attention to the bottle.

  On her stool in the corner, Lilly became more and more worried, especially with the arrival of the last two. Both men leered at her as they seated themselves on a rough bench at the table. Of the same cut as Billy and Henry, Potts had a particularly lecherous gleam in his eye. His friend, the man identified as Lem Stokes, openly gaped at her with the primitive expression of a hound dog. Averting her eyes to avoid contact, she returned her gaze to Boot. He seemed unaware of the potential danger building as the level in the bottle went down. As miserable as her life had become with Boot Stoner, she shivered when she considered her fate if she were to somehow fall into the hands of the other four.

  It was bound to come to a head. When Billy figured the group had mellowed sufficiently from the alcohol, he broached the subject that Lilly feared might come. “It’s been a mighty long time since I’ve had a roll in the hay with a young gal like her,” he announced with a confident grin that exposed all but his back teeth. “Since we’re partners, I know I’d be proud to share with you, if things were the other way around.”

  “That’s what I was thinkin’,” Virgil Potts spoke up. “It’s got to where ridin’ Sally Red Beads ain’t much better’n plowin’ a field.” His comment brought a brainless grin to the face of Lem Stokes.

  Boot Stoner’s face clouded up immediately. His eyes narrowed to little more than two slits aimed directly at Billy Sore Foot. “I ain’t your partner, and I damn sure ain’t plannin’ to share my woman with you polecats.”

  His statement was welcome news to Lilly, but it provided no confidence when she witnessed the grim expressions of the other four men. Billy’s wide grin faded to form a malicious smirk. He glanced briefly at Henry Dodge before commenting. “Well now, see, Boot, maybe me and the boys here feel like you ain’t rememberin’ we was partners. And we’re real disappointed in your attitude. The truth is, we figure we oughta have a share in whatever you’re carryin’ in them packs out there, too.”

  A deadly silence filled the tiny shack for a brief moment as everyone seemed suspended in a state of frozen apprehension. In the next instant, the silence was shattered. Virgil Potts, unable to wait a moment longer, made the fatal mistake of reaching for his pistol. Unnoticed by anyone, Boot had taken the precaution of slipping his revolver from the holster and laying it in his lap when Virgil and Lem first came in the house. The sharp crack of Boot’s shot split the room as Virgil doubled over before his hand had touched the handle of his pistol.

  Stunned by the sudden explosion, no one moved for an instant, then chairs went tumbling as everyone scrambled to find safety. Boot caught Lem Stokes with the next shot before he could get untangled from his overturned chair. Henry Dodge managed to get his gun out, but Boot shoved the table over on him and pumped two shots into him as he lay helpless on the floor. That left Billy Sore Foot as the only survivor, and Boot brought his pistol to bear on him while Billy, now seated on the floor, had his gun only halfway out of the holster.

  Seeing that he had no chance, Billy let his pisto
l ease back in the holster. “You always was quicker’n anybody I’d ever seen,” he said. “I don’t blame you for killin’ them two, but I never thought you’d turn on me and Henry. Hell, we go way back. We can start over, you and me. Why, hell, we can ride up in Kansas and Missouri, partners, like we used to, and no hard feelin’s.”

  Boot hesitated, amused by Billy’s about-face, his pistol still aimed at Billy’s head. “Well, now that’s somethin’ to think about. I tell you what. Why don’t you think about it on your way to hell?” He pulled the trigger, sending Billy Sore Foot on his way.

  With her back pressed as tightly against the corner as she could manage, Lilly sat next to her overturned stool, her hands clamped tightly over her ears, her eyes wide open in terrified shock. Ignoring her, Boot turned his gun to seek out Rena Big Dog, in case she had notions of avenging her husband, but Rena had fled through the open door with the first shot fired. Boot walked outside, where he spotted Rena and Sally Red Beads running for their lives. With the two Indian women already out of pistol range, he holstered it and pulled his rifle up. He paused then, hesitant to waste the ammunition. The decision was made for him, however, when the two fleeing women disappeared over the edge of the riverbank. He shrugged and lowered the rifle. Turning on his heel, he went back in the shack to find Lilly still cowering, terrified, in the corner.

  “Get up from there,” he commanded. “We need to look in them other houses to see if there’s anythin’ worth takin’.”

  Finding it difficult to move, she nevertheless did as she was told and collected her shattered emotions as best she could, afraid that if she didn’t, she’d be his next victim. Boot went directly to Henry Dodge’s cabin while pointing Lilly toward the footbridge to the other two.