Duel at Low Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Boot conducted a none too gentle search of Henry’s house, throwing useless articles on the floor and up-turning tables and chairs, all the while witnessed by the terrified eyes of a half dozen small children.Interested only in guns and ammunition, he came outside again with nothing much to show for his efforts. Glancing up, he encountered Lilly coming back across the creek. She cradled a rifle in her arms. Boot stopped to watch her, his hand casually resting on the handle of his revolver. A thin smile creased his lips as he waited to see what the young Creek girl would do with a rifle in her hands. With his gaze riveted upon her, she dutifully walked up to him and handed him the rifle. He knew then that he had succeeded in breaking her spirit. When he took the rifle from her, he reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. Jerking her head back until she cried out, he leered down in her face for a moment before releasing her. “Get ready to ride,” he ordered. “There ain’t nothin’ to stay here for.”

  Chapter 5

  Approaching the MKT tracks, after crossing the Grand, John pulled Cousin to a halt when he spotted two figures on foot, approaching from the opposite direction. “Women,” Two Buck said as he pulled up beside John. John nodded, then urged Cousin forward to intercept the two women.

  Upon sighting the two men on horseback veering toward them, Rena Big Dog and Sally Red Beads turned at once and ran for safety, even though it was obviously futile. The horses overtook them in a matter of minutes. When Two Buck called out to them in Cherokee, they stopped and waited.

  Puzzled to find the two Cherokee women alone and afoot in the middle of the prairie, Two Buck questioned them. They were reluctant to speak at first, both women eyeing Two Buck’s white companion suspiciously. After looking the white man over carefully, Rena Big Dog whispered to Two Buck, “John Ward?” The Indian woman had never before seen the white lawman, but she had heard plenty about the big, broad-shouldered man who rode a buckskin horse. The name John Ward was known by every outlaw in the Nations.

  Hearing his name, John interrupted the questioning. “You talk white man?” he asked. Rena nodded nervously. She then answered his questions, explaining how they happened to be there and that they were on their way to Muskogee where Sally had family. Knowing John was a marshal, she was hesitant at first to tell him that she had been living with Billy Sore Foot, thinking he might arrest her. Two Buck explained to her that John was looking for Boot Stoner. The eyes of both women lit up at that.

  “Dead!” Sally Red Beads said. “All dead. He kill everybody!”

  “When?” John asked.

  “Yesterday,” Rena answered.

  “How come you’re on foot?” John asked.

  “No time to catch horses. Afraid he gonna shoot us.”

  If what Sally said was true, John thought, then it would mean that he was not that far behind. They left the two women to resume their walk from Jackrabbit Creek to Muskogee after sharing a portion of their food supply with them.

  The buzzards had not yet discovered the second banquet left for them by Boot Stoner, since the entrée was inside the shack. It was a grim scene, with only flies as the early guests. The bodies had not yet begun to bloat and were still recognizable. “Billy Sore Foot,” Two Buck said as he stood over the body. He then pointed toward a body lying flat on its back with a table on top of it. “Henry Dodge.”

  John grunted in reply. He was familiar with the names, but had never had the occasion to come face-to-face with the two outlaws. “How ’bout the other two? You know ’em?”

  “Don’t know,” Two Buck said. “Never seen ’em.”

  John stood there for a few moments more, looking over the grisly leavings of the half-breed Boot Stoner. Then, with a slight nod that signaled he had finished there, he turned to leave the shack. “Well, I guess it don’t matter who they are. I doubt anybody’s gonna miss ’em, anyway.” He was already thinking about finding Boot’s trail away from Jackrabbit Creek.

  “It sure ain’t hard to follow his trail,” Two Buck commented, taking a last look at Billy Sore Foot’s body. Stepping rapidly to catch up with John, he asked, “We gonna bury ’em?”

  “Not hardly,” John replied without stopping to look at Two Buck. He felt no more obligation to spend sweat digging graves for the four outlaws than he would have for a rotting coyote. “Cremate ’em.”

  “Do what?” Two Buck asked, not understanding.

  “Burn the shack,” John said.

  “Oh.”

  While Two Buck set fire to Billy Sore Foot’s house, John scouted the clearing, looking for tracks that would tell him in which direction Boot had set out after his little party. It didn’t take him long to spot the trail left by two horses and two mules, leading northeast. Satisfied that it was the trail he looked for, he stood up and took a long look at the sun, already heavy in the western sky. He figured one hour of daylight at best. Might as well make camp, he thought. But not here in this stinking place. The four outlaws had not been especially tidy in their living conditions. There was a filthy squalor about the little cluster of shacks that might offend a buzzard. So as not to lose the entire hour of daylight that was left, he decided to follow Boot’s trail until he came across a spot that suited him. The decision made, he stepped up in the saddle and pointed Cousin northeast.

  Seeing John Ward mounted and riding out, Two Buck threw part of a broken chair he was holding onto the fire he had built in the middle of the shack. The fire, barely started, was showing signs of reluctance, and Two Buck hesitated, wanting to see the cabin burn, but he was irritated at being left behind. “Damn,” he finally uttered and ran for his pony. Jumping on the horse’s back, he galloped after the departing lawman. “Damn, John Ward,” he complained upon pulling up beside him, “why didn’t you say you was leavin’?”

  “Seemed obvious,” was John’s simple reply.

  Starting out early the next morning, they picked up Boot’s trail where it left the east fork of Jackrabbit Creek. Judging by the freshness of the droppings they found, John was confident that he was rapidly overtaking the cold-blooded killer. Two Buck’s eagerness upon finding fresher and fresher sign was almost more than he could restrain. John was prompted to rein the Indian’s excitement in, lest Two Buck should break into a gallop. “Just hold your damn horses,” John cautioned. “We’re catchin’ up fast, and I’d rather Boot didn’t know we’re comin’.”

  They had been riding through hill country ever since early morning, and it was now growing late in the afternoon. Boot seemed to be traveling at a leisurely pace, and John figured the outlaw might set up camp before much longer. Consequently, it made sense to him to hold back a little and catch Boot in his camp. If everything went the way he figured, and the cards fell just right, he might be heading back to Fort Smith with his prisoner in the morning.

  Crossing a wayward stream that curved around a long ridge, John pulled Cousin to a stop while he looked at the hoofprints on either side of the stream. “He stopped here and thought about makin’ camp, judgin’ by the prints. Decided to look for a better place,” he added, and nodded toward the tracks leading farther along the stream. “I reckon we’d best take it a little slower from here on,” he said, and proceeded to dismount. Following his lead, Two Buck slid off his pony. “We’ll leave the horses here,” John said, “and crawl up to the top of this ridge. Maybe we can see what’s ahead before we ride into it.”

  Tying the horses in the brush, they made their way up the slope to the rim of the ridge, where they lay flat on their bellies and scanned the valley beyond. For a few moments, there was nothing. Then Two Buck pointed to a long clump of bushes between the cottonwoodtrees. John stared at the spot for a brief second before seeing a thin wisp of smoke rising beyond the leafy vines. He acknowledged Two Buck’s signal with a nod, then said, “We’ll wait till dark—give him a chance to crawl in his blanket.”

  After studying the lay of the land, John decided it best to split up as soon as the little stream was cloaked in darkness. Pointing to a shallow ravine that appeared
to run down to the stream from the east, he instructed Two Buck to approach the camp from that side. “When you get to the head of that ravine, I’ll move in from along the stream. If we do this thing right, we oughta be able to catch him before he even knows we’re here.” He paused to study the anxious young Cherokee’s eyes, then added, “Keep your wits about you. Don’t be surprised if the girl ain’t with him.” Two Buck nodded vigorously, impatient to go. “And don’t go chargin’ in there before I work my way down to that stream. All right?” Two Buck nodded again. “Let’s go then,” John said as he pushed back from the edge of the ridge.

  Descending the slope at a trot, John couldn’t help feeling compassion for Two Buck. The young man obviously had strong feelings for the Creek girl. John was afraid Two Buck might be devastated to find she was no longer with Boot, for that would almost certainly mean she was dead. Maybe I shouldn’t have let him come with me, he thought.

  Once he reached the bank of the stream, he looked across the expanse of scrub bushes to locate Two Buck. After a few moments, he was able to make out the Indian’s form in the deepening darkness. Waving his rifle slowly back and forth over his head, he waited until Two Buck acknowledged. Then he started working his way along the stream bank toward the fire’s glow, now evident through the screen of bushes and vines. After moving approximately twenty yards closer to the camp, he came to a clearing. Dropping at once to one knee to look the situation over, he at first saw no sign of anyone near the fire. Scanning across the clearing, he saw two horses and two mules, still standing with saddles and packs on. It didn’t surprise him, knowing the nature of the man he was tracking. Still, there was no sign of anyone about. Instinctively, he quickly turned to look behind him, thinking that maybe Boot had somehow sensed danger. However, he could see no one.

  Turning back again to watch the camp, his eye caught some movement just beyond the circle of firelight. He concentrated his gaze upon it. After a few moments, he realized that what he was staring at was a prone figure seeming to bob about in the darkness. It struck him then exactly what he was witnessing.

  From the opposite side of the camp, the stark realization struck Two Buck at almost the same instant. It was too much for the anxiety-ridden young man to contain, for from his position, the fire provided just enough light to give him a glimpse of the young girl’s face, staring stoically up from beneath the half-breed’s body. “Lilly!” In heartsick rage, he cried out her name and charged into the clearing.

  Although totally absorbed in the fulfillment of his animal lust a brief instant before, Boot Stoner’s reactions were lightninglike in response. His pistol always handy, he rolled off the girl, grabbing the weapon as he did. Two Buck, charging like a crazed bull, was an easy target. Boot quickly pumped two shots into the Cherokee’s chest, dropping him before he could advance beyond the campfire.

  “Dammit!” John Ward grunted under his breath. Raising his rifle, he tried to get a clear shot, but he only got a brief glimpse of the half-breed’s body as Boot scrambled into the brush. He fired two shots in that direction anyway, knowing that it would be luck if he hit the outlaw. His miss was confirmed when a barrage of lead came back from the darkness of the brush, causing him to flatten himself on the ground. When he looked up again, it was to see Boot running for his horses. John raised his rifle again to take aim, but the half-breed was pulling the girl along behind him, shielding himself from John’s rifle.

  Scrambling to his feet, John ran to cut the fleeing outlaw off, hoping to get a clear shot when Boot was on horseback. To further frustrate the lawman, however, Boot pulled Lilly up behind him on his horse, and grabbing the reins of Lilly’s horse, he bounded out of the clearing at a gallop, the mules following behind on the lead rope. Cutting across the clearing, John was in a position to fire, but with Lilly behind Boot, he couldn’t take the chance. He was left with no choice but to let the outlaw go.

  Well, he thought, I won’t likely get another chance like that. He knows I’m after him now. There was little he could do about it at this point. Thoughts of pursuit first filled his mind, but he discarded them, knowing that he must first check on Two Buck. Turning to look back at the camp, he could see the body lying right where it had fallen, just short of the fire.

  “I reckon I’ll have to take time to bury him,” he mumbled. He could well have been irritated with the brash young man for his premature blunder, but a genuine feeling of sorrow prevented it. In the short time he had ridden with Two Buck, he had come to like the boy, and he was truly sorry for him.

  Bending over the body, John started to take Two Buck’s hands to pull him up when the Indian’s eyelids opened slowly. “I messed up,” Two Buck whispered weakly. “I’m sorry, John Ward.”

  Taken totally by surprise, John let him sink slowly back to rest on the ground again. “Damn, I thought you were dead,” he said.

  “I think I’m dyin’. I can’t feel nothin’ in my chest.”

  “No, you ain’t. Now lay still while I make sure Boot ain’t circlin’ back on us.” Leaving Two Buck where he lay, John jumped across the stream and ran up to the top of a low rise just beyond. Boot was already out of sight. Figuring that Boot wasn’t sure how many he was up against, John was pretty sure the half-breed was likely to keep moving, and as fast as he could. Disappointed, but far from discouraged, the deputy marshal turned when he heard a weak chant from the camp. Two Buck was singing his death song. Returning immediately to the young man’s side, John abruptly interrupted the singing.

  “Shut up that noise,” he ordered. “You can’t die just yet. I’m gonna be needin’ your help.” He unbuttoned Two Buck’s shirt and pulled it open to reveal two dark bullet holes. “Hmm,” he grunted, and rolled the wounded man halfway over on his side. Laying him back flat, he gave his prognosis. “Both slugs are still in you. Nothin’ came all the way through. Guess you were lucky he got you with a pistol instead of a rifle.” Always frank and an honest man, John told it like he saw it. “Like I said, you ain’t dead, but I need to get you to a doctor or I’m afraid you will be. At least you ain’t spittin’ up blood, so I reckon he missed your lung.” Getting to his feet, he said, “You lie still. I’ll go get the horses. I’ve got some cloth in my saddlebags we can use to stuff those bullet holes to stop the bleedin’.”

  With Two Buck unable to sit a saddle, John set about fashioning a travois to carry him to a doctor. If they were closer to Fort Gibson, that would have been his choice of doctors, but he was afraid Two Buck might not make it that far before bleeding out. There was an alternative, albeit one that some might think risky. Dr. Walter Summerlin had established a small clinic, with the help of his daughter, Lucinda, in the Cherokee settlement of Red Bow. There was some question concerning the reasons for the elderly physician’s presence in a remote settlement in Indian Territory. Some said it was his Christian compassion for the plight of the red man. Others, whom John Ward figured were closer to the truth, were certain Dr. Summerlin had left a practice back east in shame, mortified by the unnecessary death of a patient during a drunken attempt at surgery. It was rumored the inebriated surgeon’s hand was so unsteady that he accidentally severed an artery, causing the patient to bleed out on the table.

  John knew the doctor. He had stopped to visit him and his daughter on more than one occasion when his business caused him to be in the vicinity of the Indian village on the east fork of the Verdigris. The doctor had a fondness for alcohol, but in his waning years, the drink had become a demon in his system. He no longer had the tolerance for whiskey that he enjoyed in his younger years. Consequently, there were now scant degrees of intoxication: one drink and he was steady as a rock, two or more and he was a useless drunk. John Ward did not set himself up to judge the doctor’s weaknesses. He knew Summerlin to be a good man morally. Sober, he was a competent surgeon. One drink and he was even better. It mattered little in Two Buck’s case, however, for John was convinced that it was either Dr. Summerlin or die on the trip back to Fort Gibson for the young Cherokee. As
soon as daylight permitted, he would settle Two Buck on the travois and head west for Red Bow.

  Some four miles north, still pushing his horse hard across the darkened prairie, Boot Stoner finally decided there was no one following him. He reined back and dismounted to let the exhausted animals rest. They had had only one brief stop, when Boot halted long enough to put Lilly on her own horse. Now he waited for the girl to catch up to him.

  “What was that you yelled out back there when them bastards jumped us?” he demanded. “I heard you yell somethin’ like you knew ’em.”

  Lilly, fearfully obedient, answered. “Two Buck,” she said softly. “It was Two Buck you killed.”

  “Two Buck?” Boot snorted. “Who the hell’s Two Buck?”

  “He worked for my father while you were in prison.”

  “You mean my father,” Boot emphasized. “Wendell Stoner weren’t your daddy. You ain’t no kin of mine.” He glared at her in the darkness to make sure she had no doubt about it. “How ’bout the other feller—the one that took a shot at us. Did you get a look at him?”

  Lilly nodded, then answered, “It was John Ward.”

  “John Ward,” Boot repeated. He had heard the name somewhere before, but he couldn’t recall where. He repeated the name several times, searching his memory. Then it came to him. He was a deputy marshal. Boot had talked to a couple of fellow inmates at Little Rock who were there courtesy of John Ward. They had both said that once John Ward was on your trail, you might as well throw up your hands and surrender because he was harder to shake than the devil.

  “Damn lawman,” Boot murmured. “I heard of him. I bet there was only the two of ’em back there. I oughta go back there and shoot his ass.” It was no more than boastful talk, for his instincts were telling him it was best to avoid this particular lawman. “But I reckon it’s his luck I ain’t got the time right now. I wanna pay a little visit to that store in Oswego to see if Billy and Henry were really on to somethin’ worth lookin’ into.” There was one additional reason to keep riding to Oswego. It was in Kansas Territory and out of John Ward’s jurisdiction.