Duel at Low Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Lilly withdrew to a position a few yards away from the rope snare she had fashioned. There were squirrels skittering among the trees above her head, but none seemed the slightest bit interested in the scraps of dried beef in the rope circle on the ground. She knew the rope was really too big and clumsy, and she needed better bait, but the beef was all she had, and she was depriving an already empty stomach of that in the desperate hope that a curious squirrel would investigate. She was on the verge of giving up when she heard a faint rustle of leaves above her on the slope. A moment later she froze at the sudden sound of a voice.

  “You won’t likely catch no squirrel with that thing,” Burley called out, “and there ain’t no rabbits up this high that I’ve ever seed.”

  In a panic, Lilly almost stumbled and fell as she ran to her horse and fumbled in her saddlebag for the pistol she had taken from Boot. Figuring on the possibility of that reaction from the startled girl, Burley moved a few yards over to a clump of laurel surrounding a stout hickory trunk. He watched carefully as Lilly, her hands trembling with fear, took cover behind her horse, aiming the pistol at the bushes from which his voice had come.

  “Little lady,” Burley called again, causing the frightened girl to whirl around and point her pistol at a different clump of laurel, “I don’t mean you no harm. You ain’t got nothin’ to fear from ol’ Burley.” When there was no immediate response from the girl, he asked, “You speak American?”

  “I’ve got a gun,” she announced, in case he had not noticed, her voice quaking with fear. “What do you want?”

  “Me?” Burley replied. “I don’t want nothin’. It looks to me like you’re the one needin’ help.” There was a momentary standoff with neither party knowing what to say. Burley almost wished that he had not decided to speak to her, but he made another attempt. “Are you lost? ’Cause you look lost to me.”

  “No, I’m not lost.”

  “Well, this ain’t the road to nowhere. Where are you headed?”

  Lilly hesitated a moment before answering, “Low Hawk.”

  “Low Hawk?” Burley echoed, somewhat baffled. “You mean Low Hawk over in the Creek Nation? This sure ain’t the blame road to Low Hawk.” Certain that the Indian girl was, in fact, very much lost, and frightened as well, he decided he’d best see if he could help her. “Listen, I’m comin’ out, and we’ll talk. I ain’t gonna do you no harm. You can hold on to your pistol if it’ll make you feel better, but don’t go pointin’ the blame thing at me. All right? I’m comin’ out.”

  Remaining behind her horse for protection, Lilly jerked the pistol around to aim at a sudden parting in a clump of laurel ringing a large hickory tree. Out in the open stepped a short gnome of a man, no taller than Lilly herself. With a protruding stomach paunch, he was almost as big around as he was tall. With a face flushed red from years of cold wind and hot sun, and partially covered with dirty gray whiskers, he presented a picture that was far from menacing. Lilly let the pistol drop to her side. Dressed head to toe in animal skins, the workmanship decrying expertise with a sewing needle, Burley Chase stepped into Lilly’s life. The very appearance of the man disarmed her. She found it impossible to see him as a threat to her.

  “Burley Chase is my name,” Burley volunteered cordially as he strode up to the creek bank.

  “Lilly,” she responded.

  “You say you’re goin’ to Low Hawk?” She nodded. “Well, how on God’s green earth did you wind up here in the mountains? Low Hawk’s over a hundred miles from here, yonder way.” He pointed southwest. “Where’d you start out from?”

  Lilly turned and pointed north. No longer feeling a need to protect herself from this comical figure of a man, she stuffed her pistol back into the saddlebag and came out from behind her horse. Burley looked her up and down thoroughly, which prompted him to ask his next question. “You in some kinda trouble?” Thin and drawn, the girl looked quite the worse for wear.

  Lilly was tempted to take advantage of the man’s apparent charitable nature toward her, but a mental picture of the cruel, avenging half-breed caused her to hesitate. Boot Stoner might or might not be on her trail, but chances were that he was, and it would be a cruel act on her part to involve this innocent stranger. Harmless or not, Boot would not hesitate to kill this cherubic figure in buckskins. With these troubling thoughts in mind, she answered Burley. “Someone is after me—someone who is very dangerous and might kill anyone who helps me.”

  “Blame!” Burley exhaled softly. “Who’d wanna . . . I mean, what did you do?” The girl hardly looked old enough to have done anything to warrant such reaction from anyone.

  “I ran away,” Lilly answered. Then, in childlike fashion, she poured out her story, although she had thought not to involve him. She told of Boot Stoner’s sudden appearance at her adoptive parents’ home, and the horrors that followed.

  Listening with wide-eyed astonishment and open sympathy, Burley was touched by the girl’s words. He could not keep the picture of his own daughter out of his mind while Lilly told of the abuse she had endured and the slaughter she had witnessed. “You think he’ll come after you?” Burley asked. When she nodded sadly, he made up his mind. “Well, young lady, maybe you was lucky I found you. I’ve been hidin’ out in these here mountains for a good many years, and ain’t nobody found me yet. You come on back to my cave. That devil ain’t gonna find you there.” He paused, noting her hesitancy. “I’ve got food aplenty, and you can rest up awhile.” He grinned then. “’Course I coulda offered you some fresh venison, if I hadn’t run up on you.”

  She desperately wanted to take him up on the offer, but she still felt concern for his safety. “I’m afraid Boot will find me, and it would be bad for you,” she said.

  “He ain’t gonna find my place,” Burley boasted. Then, trying to ease her mind, he joked, “Hell, I’ll be lucky to find it again myself.” He stood waiting for her answer. She so desperately wanted help that she finally agreed to accompany him, feeling a sudden release of tension as soon as she said yes. “Good,” he said. “You just get your horse and follow me. It might be best if you lead him.” As soon as she was ready, he led off up the slope.

  It was a trek of no more than three miles, but on foot it seemed a great deal longer. Crossing over the river—Burley said it was the Buffalo—they made their way underneath steep cliffs of limestone before coming to an opening little bigger than a crack. Lilly would not have noticed it at all, since it was well disguised by a dense patch of wild holly. Burley cautioned her to follow directly in his footsteps so as not to disturb the foliage. When she had led her horse through the opening, Burley went back and made sure the branches were not broken or leaning awkwardly to indicate someone had passed through them.

  Following a narrow game trail, they climbed for what seemed hours to Lilly, causing her to marvel at her round little guide’s stamina. Finally, they came to a waterfall, high up on a mountain, that fell two hundred feet to a rocky stream below. There was a dingy gray horse tethered by the bank of the stream. “Welcome to my abode,” Burley said with a wide grin and an exaggerated gesture.

  Except for the gray mare by the stream, Lilly could see no signs of a camp. She expressed that observation to Burley, and he nodded smugly before explaining. “My camp’s inside, behind the waterfall. That’s why nobody can’t find it.”

  “What about your horse?” Lilly asked. “Anybody can see your horse.”

  “I bring her in the cave at night, or when I think somebody might be close abouts. Wait. I’ll show you.” Childlike in his eagerness to show off his primitive dwelling, Burley hurried up to the base of the waterfall. The mare issued an inquisitive whinny that was returned by Lilly’s horse. “See,” Burley said, “Sadie’ll let me know if anybody’s comin’.”

  Forgetting Boot Stoner for the moment, Lilly could not suppress a smile as she followed the elfish little man as he stepped from rock to rock in the surging stream of clear water. When they reached the other side, she dropped her horse’s rein
s, confident that it would be content to graze unfettered. Standing before the waterfall, Burley paused long enough to let Lilly take a good look at it. “Ain’t no way you can tell there’s a cave behind that water unless you was to get right up against the cliff beside the fall. That’s the way I found it. Before that, I passed by this waterfall two or three times when I was ridin’ with Bloody Jack Wheeler. I never seen it.” He paused to read her reaction. “I reckon you’ve heard of Bloody Jack’s gang.” She shook her head. Disappointed, he went on. “No? Well, I reckon you are a mite young to know about such things.” He beckoned for her to follow.

  Inside, just beyond the sheet of falling water, they entered a small cave about the size of a large room. Still, there were no signs of a camp there other than several piles of horse droppings. Burley went directly to a small opening at the back of the cave and, turning sideways, squeezed through. Lilly, without the restrictions of Burley’s generous stomach, passed through easily to find Burley waiting for her in a huge, cavernous chamber perhaps three times larger than the outer cave. Here, in the dim light, she saw the evidence of more than eight years’ existence of the self-imposed hermit. Lilly stopped to take it all in: his bedroll spread neatly against one wall, a fire pit near the back wall, various pots and pans stacked to one side of a wood pile. Next to the cooking utensils, there were several large parfleches, which she would later find to contain dried meat.

  Watching her reaction, Burley proudly pointed out, “There’s a natural smoke hole above the fire pit, right through solid rock. The ceilin’ on this cave is a flat slab of rock, layin’ across what I reckon was a gulch a long time ago. Now it’s filled in around it with trees and stuff. The hole lets in a little light. If it weren’t for that, you couldn’t see a blame thing in here without a torch.” She nodded, having already wondered why she could see this deep inside the cliff. “One time, about a year ago, a dead tree came down on the ridge above us—fell right smack across my smoke hole. I didn’t even hear it fall. But pretty soon the cave started fillin’ up with smoke, till it plum run me out.” He chuckled as he related the incident. “Me and Sadie had to go up on the ridge and move the blame tree. While I was at it, I drug another one over so’s I had a log on both sides of the hole. Now a whole passel of trees could fall across it and they wouldn’t stop up my smoke hole.”

  Realizing then that he was rambling continuously, he said, “But I’m just runnin’ off at the mouth. Let’s see about fixin’ you up with somethin’ to eat. I reckon I’ve just been too blame long without somebody to talk to besides Sadie.”

  In short order, Burley stirred up the coals in the fire pit and had a fresh blaze going. He took several strips of dried venison and one chunk of smoked turkey from the parfleches and placed them in a pan to warm them. “This’ll do for right now,” he explained. “Tonight, we’ll have us a stew. I’ll catch us a squirrel or maybe a possum. Stew up a possum with some greens from the stream and some of them roots that look like turnips, and you got yourself a fine supper. All the comforts of a home in the settlements—I do miss coffee, though.” He stopped to remember the taste. “I make my own coffee—make it outta acorns. Don’t taste the same.” He shook his head regretfully.

  After the meal of dried meat, Lilly tried a cup of Burley’s acorn brew. It was much too bitter for her taste. Burley laughed at the face she made when she tried to drink it. “You have to get used to it, I reckon,” he allowed, and finished it for her. “You rest here while I take care of your horse. Then I’ll be gone for a spell while I find somethin’ for supper. You can use my bedroll if you wanna.” It hit her then that she was near exhaustion. When Burley left the cave, she took a closer look at his bedroll. One look was enough to convince her that she would be more comfortable just curled up by the fire.

  Chapter 10

  John Ward stood staring down at the remains of a small campfire in a grove of poplars by the river. He extended one foot and poked around in the ashes with the toe of his boot. From all appearances they had not lingered long at this camp, judging by the amount of ashes. He looked around the little clearing again, somewhat puzzled by the two piles of items left behind: some cooking utensils, clothing, tools, blankets, and other items, as well as the packs that had held them—enough to furnish a household. Lying near the piles were two bridles. For some reason, Boot had decided to cut his pack mules loose. This notion was confirmed a short time later when he picked up their trail out of the camp. Tracks of the two horses alone led off toward the south. A short distance farther on, the tracks were joined by the tracks of the mules. John pictured the two mules tagging along behind Stoner and Lilly even though they had been freed.

  He followed the tracks for about five miles or so before finding another camp by a small stream. This was where they had stopped for the night. This was evident by the size of the fire and the disturbed leaves and grass where their bed had been. Horse droppings, the little bit of grass that had been grazed, broken branches; everything pointed to an overnight stay.

  It was getting late in the day. There would be little more than an hour left before darkness would force him to make camp. Boot had chosen a good campsite, and John hesitated over a decision to use it himself, or push on for an hour or so before darkness stopped him. The buckskin seemed to be trying to influence him to stay. The horse sauntered over to the bank of the stream and began feeding upon the tender shoots at the water’s edge. “All right,” John said, “we’ll make camp here.”

  While he made coffee, he considered the manner of man he trailed. Judging by the direction the outlaw had now turned, John had to speculate that Boot was gradually circling back toward the Nations. He would know that for sure if Boot took a turn back toward the west before reaching the mountains. He felt confident that he was gaining on Boot. Each campsite he found told him so. But he was still not satisfied with his progress. It seemed that every day Boot was not caught provided the potential for another poor soul being murdered. He was already losing track of the number of days he had been on the half-breed’s trail, arriving at the scene of one massacre after another, and always at least one day behind. It was beginning to try John’s usual patience.

  While thinking about the man he chased, he also paused to puzzle over Lilly. It was especially disturbing to him to recall the Joplin bartender’s account of the shooting there. According to him, Lilly had attacked the woman called Rose in a jealous rage over the woman’s flirtatious attention to Boot. That didn’t fit with the picture he had of Lilly. The young Creek girl had been like a daughter to Wendell Stoner. It was hard to accept the fact that she might be a willing accomplice to Boot Stoner. During John’s occasional visits to the trading post, Lilly had always demonstrated affection to both Wendell and Morning Light. It just didn’t seem right that the shy young girl would go bad, and willingly ride with the likes of Boot Stoner. It was troubling, but he would be aware of the need to keep one eye on Lilly when he caught up with Boot. These thoughts were heavy on his mind when he drifted off to sleep.

  He was awakened by a sharp clap of thunder, followed moments later by a driving rain that fairly soaked him before he could get his slicker from his saddlebags. Cursing loudly while fumbling with the oilskin slicker to keep it from flapping in the wind, he gathered his weapons and blanket in a losing effort to keep them dry. Crouching up under a low oak, he tried to fashion a tent with the slicker while the lightning flashed and the rain poured down in torrents. The storm had taken him totally by surprise, as storms this time of year had a habit of doing. There had been no sign of an approaching storm the day before. It irritated him that he had not seen it coming. Disgruntled, but knowing there was nothing to be done about it, he sat under the tree and waited for morning.

  With the arrival of first light, the storm had passed over, leaving broken tree limbs and leaves scattered about that spoke of the ferocity of the wind. The little stream had swollen to twice its original size. And most devastating of all was the absence of tracks. Boot’s trail had been washed
away by the storm.

  He spent some time searching the area where he had discovered the trail the night before, in hopes that the rain had not erased every single track, but his search was in vain. Although he found some tracks, they were scattered—some horse, some mule, but none in a pattern that would signify a definite trail. Knowing only the general direction Boot had started out, he was left with no choice but to set out in the same direction, and hope to pick up tracks farther on. Without taking time for coffee or breakfast, he saddled Cousin and, with a soggy blanket rolled up behind him, rode off through the trees toward the distant hills. He would ride until the sun climbed a little higher in the sky before stopping to dry his gear and make coffee.

  After stopping just before noon, he was back in the saddle and on his way once more, riding blind, for there were no tracks to be found. It was difficult to believe that the storm had smoothed out every track, so he had to assume that Boot’s trail was either to the east or west of him. Following the hunch that Boot would eventually cut back to the west and head for Indian Territory, John decided to continue riding south, and hope to pick up Boot’s cross trail.

  Some two miles short of the rugged Boston Mountains, his hunch appeared to have borne fruit. Riding between two hills, he crossed over a trickle of a stream and paused to let Cousin drink. While he waited, his eye caught sight of a clearly defined hoofprint in the sandy shoulder of the stream. He immediately dismounted to look for more. Looking closely at the print, he determined that it was from one of the mules. Evidently they were still following Boot and Lilly. The hoofprint was pointing west, crossing his trail. Needing at least one more for confirmation, he walked carefully along the bank, his eyes searching the ground. Suddenly, there it was! A second print, also that of a mule, and pointing west, like the first. This seemed to be confirmation, but he stopped to debate it in his mind before committing. There was no print from a horse, and there were only two mule prints. He squinted his eyes and looked to the south, where there were no tracks. Then he considered his hunch that Boot was heading back to Indian Territory. He decided to follow the tracks. He stepped up in the saddle and turned Cousin’s head to the west. With no other tracks to follow, the only option was to follow a hunch. With one last look toward the mountains to the south, he uttered, “Hell, I’d just be wastin’ time wanderin’ around in those mountains lookin’ for a trail.”