Hawk Eyes

by David Althouse

  I also knew that if the future drovers along the Chisholm were as keen ’bout their business as were those drovers along the Shawnee, they’d soon learn to give up a steer or two to the Indians of the area in order to pass through their domain.

  They’d also learn ’bout the quicksand in the rivers and fight shy of it in order to protect their cattle and their cowboys. More than just a few cowboys had drowned in the rivers along the Shawnee, and it was a certain thing that it would happen along the Chisholm. But, a good drover would work extra hard to keep that from happenin’. I still remember where lay the good rock bottom river crossin’s along the Shawnee, and soon the drovers would know the same thing ’bout this new trail.

  As Chisholm and I talked ‘bout McCoy’s plans for the Chisholm, I couldn’t help but recollect my own time along the Shawnee. Drovin’ longhorns was some kind of work and, whilst doin’ it, you thought the days would never end. What I recollect, the easiest is bein’ out there on the trail of an evenin’ takin’ in the smell of the firewood, of the tobacco smoke and the brewin’ coffee, and hearin’ the soft talk of the men around the campfire. I reckon settlin’ in for the night after givin’ it hell all day is somethin’ hard workin’ men of all stripes are fond of. Maybe that’s why I recollect those times so easily today, many, many years later.

  My fond recollections of the Shawnee, along with the news of this new cattle trail, was settin’ me to ponder goin’ into cattle drovin’ again. I soon threw out that idea, though. I was headin’ to the gold and silver country to the west, where I hoped there would be greater reward than could be had on any cattle drive.

  One day, after Chisholm and I had put in a good day buildin’ corrals and fittin’ wood for a new cabin, I told him ’bout my hankerin’ to see that country around Red Rock Canyon. The canyon lay some fifty miles to the southwest, as a crow flies, and served as a shady stopover for the travelin’ settlers along the California Road. I explained to Chisholm that I was feelin’ some cooped up and was thirstin’ for a good ride off into newer country. Chisholm told me to be extra careful whilst out there on the plains and I knew just exactly what he was talkin’ ’bout. I set out for the canyon a few days after.

  As unfamiliar as I was with the country hereabouts, I decided to go ’bout the journey the easy way. I decided to ride south, catch the California Road, and take it all the way west to the canyon, knowin’ fully this route was addin’ many extra miles to the trip. So, crossin’ the North Canadian there at Chisholm’s, and shortly thereafter crossin’ what folks now call Mustang Creek, I was on my way. It was wide and open country all around, covered with wild rye, green grass, and pea vine. Not even a full day into the trip I’d seen deer, turkey, and prairie chickens in abundance. It was then I knew that Chisholm and me would not have any trouble stayin’ stocked with grub for the winter. Any man worth his salt could easily live off the bounty of the country hereabouts.

  On the second day, on towards late afternoon, as I made my way westward along the South Canadian, my eyes caught somethin’ off in front of me maybe two miles distant. It was an Indian camp for certain, and I guessed it to be Cheyenne. Their teepees stood out clearly in the afternoon haze, even though I was squintin’ my eyes against the glare of the sun to make ’em out. Those teepee entryways was facin’ east, the direction from which I rode. I immediately pulled up short, not wantin’ to show myself. I was in amongst the cottonwoods, and decided to stay that way to give the matter some woolin’ over. To ride up to their camp was clearly out of the question. When I discussed this later with Chisholm he confirmed my guess that this was a Cheyenne camp, but he was some wonderin’ why they’d be so far south.

  Their teepees were clearly visible within the camouflage of the cottonwoods along the river, as was their wood smoke dancin’ its way up through the trees along the riverbanks. I decided to stake out Amigo and inch my way in for a closer look, which I was able to do in fair time because of the ample cover of trees and brush.

  I got in as close as possible to the sights, sounds, and smells of that Cheyenne camp. It was the first time I’d ever seen such, and the whole thing was as interestin’ as could be. I’d lived up close with Choctaws and Cherokees my whole life, but I could tell the people of the plains tribes was a different sort of Indian. These folks were livin’ much as they’d been livin’ for hundreds and maybe even thousands of years. Women draped in what looked like cream-colored blankets sat on the ground outside some of those teepees, and it looked like they was workin’ on fresh buffalo and deer hides. A few children darted this way and that followed by their camp dogs.

  I was mindful that day that the wind was blowin’ out of the southwest, which would keep those dogs from catchin’ a good whiff of me. If they were to catch my smell, all kinds of barkin’ would commence and the entire camp would know someone was out there. I wasn’t seein’ the presence of any Cheyenne bucks. I thought ‘bout that some and it came to me they were probably out on the hunt. Maybe there was good size herd of buffalo they were followin’ hereabouts, I thought. I’d been told these plains tribes made their livin’ from followin’ the very herds of buffalo that was their food supply.

  Them Cheyenne had constructed themselves a contraption to hang all their meat on to dry. They’d planted four poles in the ground to make up ‘bout a twelve-foot square. Then, they’d tied longer poles sideways across the top of them four poles to give the whole thing a box look. Great strips of meat – pieces what looked four feet long – lay draped over those top poles to dry. I sat there for the longest time and watched all the goin’s-on. The thing what amazed me the most was that their dogs didn’t make one move toward that dryin’ meat. There was four or five dogs that I’d noticed, and not one of ’em ever made a move toward those venison and buffalo strips. Anyways, it looked like them Cheyennes had enough meat to feed the entire tribe for weeks. I ain’t pullin’ your leg none.

  Like I said before, I’d no intention of ridin’ into that camp. Accordin’ to my way of thinkin’, I was a man just passin’ through these parts, and as soon as winter was over I’d be on my way west to gold and silver country. No sir, trouble was the last thing I was lookin’ for at this point and time.

  When I made my way back to Amigo he was munchin’ on some grass what grew in the shade of the cottonwoods. I mounted up and we swung due north, makin’ our way wide and around that camp, which sort of irritated me when I thought of the extra miles this was tackin’ onto the trip. I finally reconciled that even though this extra half loop across the country was addin’ miles, it was probably subtractin’ trouble – trouble I didn’t need. Whilst ridin’ out on that great loop, I came across the tracks of ’bout thirty un-shod ponies, and I was for sure they belonged to the Cheyenne bucks what was missin’ from the camp some miles back. The tracks was headin’ north, and it looked as if they was huntin’ for sure, confirmin’ my earlier guess. Once I’d rode far enough north and then back to the west, I commenced back south as far as the South Canadian, never once seein’ Cheyenne tracks. I figured I didn’t make my presence known to ’em, and that gave me a good feelin’.

  Because of the route taken, and then havin’ to go way wide and around that Cheyenne camp, I made it to the little canyon on a three-day ride in what should’ve been two. Just as Chisholm had said, the canyon just appeared out of nowhere out there on those sun-baked plains, and you damn near had to be lookin’ for it to find it. Red Rock Canyon, aptly named with its reddish rocks, boulders, and steep walls, cut a fair swath into that part of the country. It weren’t nothin’ compared to those canyons I’d see later out in New Mexico and Colorado, but a respectable little canyon it was, and a sight much appreciated by a set of eyes what had been lookin’ at rollin’, sun-baked plains for what seemed like months. Ridin’ down the wagon trail from the northwest corner of the canyon, I instantly saw why westward rollin’ settlers hankered for this red hole in the ground. Except for when the sun blazed from directly overhead, the canyon offered shade most all hours of the day
, allowin’ for needed repairs to be made on their wagons whilst nestled down behind those red rock walls and under the canyon trees. The canyon also offered clear, fresh water, which is always a welcome thing to find whilst travelin’ in plains country. The one thing what stood out as I made my way into the canyon was the lack of trails in and out. It soon became clear as I made my way south through the canyon that the only trails in and out stood at the north and south ends.

  This was a bothersome thing, and it started to nag at me right off. I started askin’ myself ’bout the survival chances of a group of travelers or a whole wagon train what might get ambushed down here with no quick way out. ’Bout that time, the hairs on the back of my neck started to stand up and tingle, the sound of every singin’ bird and rustlin’ leaf reached my ears, and the million leaves of the cottonwoods and caddo maples stood out to me in clear detail. The whole world started to slow down to me as I got that feelin’ of premonition again. I figured I’d worked myself into a lather by thinkin’ ‘bout how easy poor travelin’ settlers could get themselves trapped down there durin’ an attack. Oh God, to this day I wish that were all it was, but it wasn’t. What awaited me as I rode around a stand of trees makin’ my way farther along the canyon floor on the south end was the days-old aftermath of murder, mutilation, and terror – all inflicted upon a group of travelers on the California Road. The scene was beyond ghastly and grisly. I only thought I’d witnessed hatred before – such as Rebels what hated Yankees, and Yanks what hated Rebs – but I’d never seen anything like this. My belly turned at the sight of what was once an entire family – a family murdered, scalped, and cut to pieces down in the bottom of Red Rock Canyon. The man I assumed to be the father was shot to doll-rags and scalped, and I wasn’t sure in which order these events occurred. The lady I assumed to be his wife lay some thirty yards away, her body naked and mutilated. Very little of her blonde hair was still atop her head, for the murderin’ savages had scalped her, too. There was two young boys what also lay victim. One had been mutilated almost beyond recognition, with the one noticeable thing bein’ the look of sheer terror frozen onto his face. The other, a youngster of maybe a year old, had been pole axed. The buzzards had already been there.

  Oh my God in heaven, I asked aloud, how could such a devilish thing happen to people? It was a sight of pure horror, what lay before me. The stench of the decayin’ bodies made the scene near unbearable. Havin’ seen all I could take for the time bein’, I rode out to the far south end of the canyon.

  The first thing I did was catch some air what wasn’t permeated with that horrible stench. This I did, breathin’ in deeply. I felt, as well as heard, my own heartbeat, and it came as rapid claps of thunder. Havin’ dismounted, I made my way to a fallen cottonwood and sat there atop it for probably two hours, tryin’ to shake off the feelin’ of horror, to think straight once again, and to get the world to stop spinnin’. After my head and stomach started to settle down, I determined to go back and bury them folks as best I could, then try and take a closer look at the surroundin’ tracks to make some sense of what had happened.

  Once back to that awful site, I began lookin’ in their wagon for tools I could use for diggin’. Hell, there wasn’t anything I could use except some good size tin cans. Had there been a shovel amongst their belongin’s, it had probably been taken by whoever had committed this horrible act. For many hours, right there at the very spot of this bloody deed, I dug as deep into the ground as I could. A bandana covered my mouth and nostrils, but in no way curtailed the awful stench of the decomposin’ bodies, and there wasn’t a breeze down in the canyon to help matters any.

  Once I’d dug all I could, I took a blanket from the wagon and used it to carry the bodies over to the hole. Havin’ covered the bodies over, I commenced to studyin’ on those tracks. My earlier suspicions ’bout folks gettin’ cornered down in the canyon with no way out were confirmed by what I found. One rider had approached the group from the north and two had approached ’em from the south. Them poor folks had been boxed in nicely for the torture and death what awaited ’em.

  Now, I gotta tell you, for many long hours as I worked on my hands and knees diggin’ them folks a grave, my mind was blamin’ them Cheyenne I circumvented for this horrible deed. But when I took a close look at the tracks, it was plain to see that wasn’t the case. Them tracks in the canyon was made by an entirely different group of riders. Two of the three horses in the canyon was shod, whilst each and every one of them Cheyenne ponies was un-shod. To boot, the ponies what carried these butchers came to the canyon from the west, and returned to the west after they’d finished their dirty work down in the canyon. I’d seen nothin’ to convince me them settlers was murdered by the group of Cheyenne I encountered.

  Of course, there was a sure-fire way to determine who done this thing, and that was to follow those tracks what was headed off to the west. That’s what I decided to do. The near dark of night had found me havin’ just buried that poor family in the ground, so I slept overnight in the canyon and took out west along those tracks at first light the next mornin’.

  Me and Amigo spent the entire next day followin’ the tracks made by the three horses, two of ’em shod and one of ’em un-shod. Damn my ever-livin’ luck that long ‘bout dusk that night Amigo pulls up gimpin’ with a stone bruise. I couldn’t make good time with a lame horse, so I sat there on the ground for a time contemplatin’ what my next move should be. I’d guessed we’d made at least fifty miles that day, ridin’ at a good clip across those wide-open plains along the trail of those tracks. The way of those tracks indicated frequent stops, which gave me to know this outfit was not in a great hurry. They’d been amblin’ along at a snail’s pace whilst Amigo and me had been catchin’ up.

  There was no way I could ride any farther to the west on poor Amigo. To encounter those murderers whilst usin’ a lame mount would put me in a helluva fix, because it would make a sudden getaway impossible. I’d have to come out on top of a one-on-three fight with no way to make a run for it. No sir, the sensible thing to do, I thought at the time, was to set tight for a few days and see if Amigo could get his normal gait back. Then we could get back to the tradin’ post and out of this neck of the woods altogether. We’d do this at whatever pace Amigo could keep, whilst doin’ everything we could to stay out of the range of them Cheyenne I’d seen earlier.

  Then, I set up a dry night camp, usin’ what little light remained in the sky. Havin’ staked Amigo near good grass, I left our cover of cottonwoods to take a look at the night sky and the western horizon. The wide-open prairie sky bowled the horizon in every direction, its great blackness dotted with a million flecks of sparklin’ light – like shinin’ diamonds what had been thrown out on a blanket of coal-black felt. Way off, directly west of our camp to the far horizon, lay a source of light so bright that I knew it weren’t a star in the sky at all. It was a campfire, and more than likely made by the very folks whose tracks I’d been followin’ the whole day through.

  The more I thought ’bout it, the more I knew that fire belonged to the livin’ scourge Chisholm had made it a point to tell me ’bout.

  That fire belonged to Buffalo Skull.

  7 Buffalo Skull

  Right then it came to me that it might be a good idea to amble off in the direction of that campfire whilst afoot, so’s to get a closer look at the camp and the men in it. So, off I went, joggin’ at a good clip at first, seein’ my way along with the help of the moonlight and millions of stars all around. The closer I got to the campfire, the more I slowed the pace. It weren’t my intention to run hell-for-leather into these bastards and give myself away. No sir, I’d slowed down to a slow walk when I was a couple hundred yards out. I figured to Injun my way in from there, creepin’ in on my belly a few inches at a time, careful to keep the rifle and sidearm from hittin’ against any rocks on the ground. Metal against rock makes a nice sharp sound that just ’bout anyone can hear on a quiet night out on the plains.

  Every so oft
en the barrel of that Sharps would clack against a stone, and even though it couldn’t be heard from fifty feet away, it sounded like a cannon shot to my ears. I was tryin’ that hard to make no sound at all. The few times that happened, I’d cease all movement for twenty or thirty minutes at a time, takin’ looks toward their fire to make sure I’d attracted no attention. Once I was certain the sound hadn’t carried, I’d creep in a few yards more. Soon, I could make out distant figures walkin’ in front of the campfire light.

  In a little closer, and I was hearin’ their sounds a lot better – mostly shouts, grunts, and an occasional laugh. I finally made it in to a distance that was ‘bout a hundred feet from the campfire. I could make out two of ’em – one hairy-faced ape who looked half Mexican and half somethin’ else, and another what looked like a Kiowa or Comanche, what with his leather moccasins up to the knees and scant breechclout. I sat there for the longest time takin’ in the scene.

  The hairy-faced one sat there by the fire whilst eatin’ dried meat. He ate as if it was the last meal he’d ever get in his life, crammin’ the food into his mouth like he was starvin’ and then chewin’ it like he was some kind of wild boar hog. The Indian sat there with his legs crossed, his eyes showin’ no expression. After what seemed like an hour had passed, one I hadn’t seen came from out behind some cottonwoods and took his place by the fire. His back against a cottonwood, with the fire directly in front of him, the new one sat there with arms wrapped around his upwardly pointed knees.