Hawk Eyes

by David Althouse

  Her eyes opened and it appeared as if she was lookin’ down toward the end of the bed. She gasped and then smiled the most gleeful smile! I will never forget the look on her face. It was the look of happiness and surprise all to once, and I don’t think I’d ever seen it on anyone before. It was as if she’d seen someone long since gone from her life, like a dearly departed kinfolk, or very close friend. Then her eyes closed once again and she seemed to go into a deep sleep. All I could think to do was pet her head, run my fingers through her coal-black hair, and pray to God Almighty to save my sweet Little Doe. I fought back tears because I didn’t want her to be frightened if she woke up and saw me that way.

  After a few minutes, she awoke. My heart was so glad to look into her beautiful dark eyes once again!

  Although she spoke in a low whisper, I could still make out her words. “The spirits are here, my warrior. Do you not see them?”

  Somehow, she had managed enough strength to speak, and I could only look into her eyes with wonder.

  “The spirits, they are here, they are here to take me to the spirit world. They have been waiting on me, waiting for me to tell you something very important.”

  Fightin’ back the tears, I asked her to tell me, and she did in the same low whisper.

  “I tell you to please make your travel. It is so beautiful to know I will walk beside you still. The spirits have told me and they have been waiting on me to tell you.”

  As I held her in my arms, I could feel her muscles tighten as she reached up to take me in her arms. With much struggle, she was able to place one of her arms around my neck. I lowered my head down to make her effort easier.

  “I walk with you now and forever. One day we walk in the spirit world. Now I walk with you as you make your travel.”

  “My Little Doe, I will love you back.”

  She looked into my eyes, smiled, and then her weakened arm fell from around my neck and the life floated from her body and into the spirit world.

  I held her tight for a time, and my mind spun with every memory of my life’s one true love. My mind raced with the memory of when I first saw her by the stickball field, to the many times I saw her in Tahlequah, and to the time more recently when I first saw her at the tradin’ post. I recalled, as well, our time together huntin’ up near the Cimarron and our last days together there at Chisholm’s place on the banks of the North Canadian.

  I held her in my arms for the longest time, and her body grew cold. My sweet Little Doe was gone, and the reality of it all left me empty inside, as if my very soul was a gigantic canyon pullin’ in all the darkness of the world.

  I took a closer look at Little Doe’s hands and then a boilin’ rage swept over me when I noticed the blood and flesh underneath her fingernails. I knew then that she had suffered the worst, but had fought back as only someone of her noble womanhood could. I stood lookin’ down at her for the longest time as the reality of it all set in. My rage slowly eased until none was left, and then I was just a cold, calculatin’, soulless animal more than fully ready to set out on my next course.

  Somethin’ blocked the afternoon sunlight from the doorway and I turned to see what stood there. It was Chisholm. I knew by his look that he’d been beaten as well, but he stood there now with the same leather-like toughness as when I’d first laid eyes on him. It didn’t surprise me that whatever they’d done to him, he’d survived it, just as he’d survived so many other things in his long life up until then.

  I walked to the doorway where he stood, and he looked straight into my eyes, as if he could read my every thought.

  “Don’t do it, son. Let it be. I’m taking her now to bury her beside her brother. As he lay dying, Tickerneeskee said he wanted to talk to you – something about your totem. He would not want you to do this. If you want to kill, then kill the bitter revenge that is in your heart. You are no match for Buffalo Skull. If you go after him, he will surely kill you.”

  The news that Tickerneeskee had fallen to the same murderers left me more determined than before. As I walked past Chisholm, he reached out as if to stop me. I said nothin’ and neither did he. He knew by my expression that his words were for naught.

  I brushed past Chisholm, boarded Amigo, crossed the muddy waters of the North Canadian, and headed due west.

  We followed the tracks of Buffalo Skull.

  9 Hunting Buffalo Skull

  It wasn’t in me to run Amigo too hard on the first day of our manhunt. I knew I’d already run him damned hard gettin’ back to the tradin’ post that very day. No sir, I made sure to hold off and let Amigo go at his own pace, as he would need every bit of his strength on this hunt. This was a time to ride quiet and sure and to make every move count.

  My brain boiled with the thought of Buffalo Skull, and my heart grew blacker every time his face rode across my mind’s eye. I owned one thought when I remembered his ugly, barbaric face, and that thought was of his death at my hands. He’d been a scourge on the country thereabouts for too long and now he’d taken the most beautiful and decent woman the Great Spirit had ever created. I loved Little Doe as I would never love a woman ever again. We both had planned to live out our days together, and now she was gone from my life forever. I rode confident in my hatred that I’d kill Buffalo Skull and every member of his band before this hunt was over. As I rode out from the tradin’ post on that first day, I owned not the slightest idea of how I would settle the score. My first goal was to get within strikin’ distance and then make a plan.

  I figured to be betwixt one and two days behind him and his band, and I didn’t think that was too bad. Many trackers had started out much farther behind their intended prey and had gone on to do the job nicely. I figured I was some lucky to be as close to those bastards as I was.

  Night was comin’ on fast, so I determined to dismount and make a dry camp. This I did, right out there in the middle of that wide-open and lonesome country—just me and Amigo, a few weeks’ supply of dried venison, my Enfield and Sharps rifles, my pistol, and my Bowie. When the dark of night had set in, I looked off to the west for signs of a campfire and seen nothin’ of the kind.

  I laid there on a chill March night on those lonely plains lookin’ straight up to a starry night sky. The Big Dipper lay right there in the middle of all that night blackness, a little to the north of the dark dome what covered everything around me down there on Earth. My ears listened to everything around me, tryin’ to decipher the slightest of sounds. My eyes grew accustomed to the night, and I dared not light a fire what would blur my vision if I had to look away from the fire of a sudden. No sir, I laid there as quiet as could be, watchin’ and listenin’ and thinkin’.

  By my best estimation, Buffalo Skull and his men were headin’ west toward the Texas Panhandle, as he had confederates what stayed out that way, or at least that’s what Chisholm told me. Chisholm had it on good word that Buffalo Skull’s Panhandle friends were good friends with the Comanches out that way, and sometimes ran with them as full bona fide tribal members. I’d learnt to trust information what came from the old trader, so I believed what he said ’bout Buffalo Skull.

  My guess was that my intended prey was headin’ straight as an arrow toward the Panhandle, but I knew I’d find out for sure the followin’ day when I was able to decipher their tracks of a daylight. Right then and there, as I lay lookin’ up at those millions of stars in the night sky, a plan of sorts started to take shape in my mind. My mind’s eye could see the plan of attack in full detail, and my heart beat happy that I wasn’t shootin’ totally from the hip.

  The more I thought ’bout it, the more I knew I was in this for the long haul. It might take weeks, even months, to kill Buffalo Skull and all of the skunks what rode alongside of him. This thing wouldn’t end in one fell swoop, unless it was me who fell to them of a sudden. When it’s one against many, the one man has to play it smart, takin’ it slow and easy, usin’ every advantage he might have, and not makin’ any big mistakes. An advantage might be somethin’ as
simple as the lay of the land, and such an advantage might be a temporary one, so a man might have to make a move whilst the advantage was there. What I’m tryin’ to say is that sometimes a man has to think on the fly, and not stick with a plan of attack when somethin’ new comes along what might call for a twist in the plan, or for a brand new plan altogether.

  Leastways, an overall plan was takin’ shape and ol’ Hawk Eyes was woolin’ it over real thorough-like. Of course, what presented itself to me on the followin’ day would be mighty important. I needed to know such things as exactly in what direction these bastards were ridin’, exactly how many riders Buffalo Skull had alongside him, and what weapons they carried. The thought occurred that I was likely goin’ to have to do without sleep for long periods at a time on this hunt. That was my last thought as I drifted off to sleep out there on those wide-open plains of the Indian Territory, ‘bout ten miles due west of the slow movin’ waters of the North Canadian River.

  Of course, what I awoke to the next mornin’ was nothin’ at all what I expected. What I awoke to was a couple of kicks in the belly and a round of ’bout seven wallops against my head. No sooner had I awoke to the kicks than I was gettin’ worked over by a set of huge fists. I fought back as best I could, but there was no way to overcome bein’ taken unaware from a stone-cold sleep.

  As I think back on it now, I know that I was some tired that night, havin’ returned back to the tradin’ post the day before and then havin’ to face all the horrible things what had happened to Little Doe, Tickerneeskee, and Chisholm. I learnt my lesson for good because of that early mornin’ beatin’, always sleepin’ with one eye open thereafter, but I knew that when a man allows himself to get exhausted out there in wild country with killers afoot, then he’s just runnin’ the risk of facin’ a disaster like what I awoke to that fine morning.

  The fellow doin’ the beatin’ on me turned out to be Buffalo Skull’s hairy faced Mexican, who I could’ve sent to hell some months back down there by the South Canadian River. To make a long story short, I’ll just say that I got the holy hell beat out of me that mornin’ and found myself flat on my back with my wrists tied to stakes what were pounded deep in the ground. There were no trees anywhere around for miles, so the stakes were the only thing the Mexican could use to bind me up.

  As I think back on it, I figure Buffalo Skull and his men probably carried such stakes to be used for this very thing out there in the middle of all that treeless country in western Indian Territory and the Texas Panhandle. It had to be so for such men as Buffalo Skull, men who had mastered murder and torture to an art.

  Torture is what the Mexican had in mind for me. As I said, I awoke to the initial beatin’ and then lay unconscious. I awoke again and found myself staked to the ground. The hairy bastard had only stopped beatin’ me when I was out cold and couldn’t feel it anyway, and because he needed to tie me down.

  When I awoke and found myself staked, I knew that it was torture time again. As soon as my eyes opened, the Mexican walked over and kicked me against my head with his booted feet, gougin’ me with those sharp Mexican spurs from time to time, just to keep it interestin’.

  “You stupid gre-e-ngo! You should have ke-e-led us many months ago when you had a chance. Now we ke-e-l you.”

  Then I knew that the murderin’ band must’ve seen my tracks the day after I’d laid for ’em some months before.

  The beatin’s commenced until I lay out stone-cold again. After a time, my eyes would reopen and I would ask myself why in the hell I didn’t listen to Chisholm and leave well enough alone. I didn’t know how much more I could take, and soon I was prayin’ that God Almighty would just let him kill me.

  But he didn’t kill me. He must’ve known just how much punishment to dole out without actually finishin’ me off. I figured he was savin’ what was left of me for Buffalo Skull and the rest of the band. And that brought up another question that my swirlin’, poundin’ brain dealt with – where was Buffalo Skull?

  I couldn’t figure out why the ugly Mexican was separated from Buffalo Skull and the others. My thinkin’ was that he was either waitin’ on Buffalo Skull to come to us, or else he was just softenin’ me up so’s I couldn’t fight whilst on a ride to wherever Buffalo Skull was.

  The beatin’s continued for a whole day.

  It got to the point that I became afraid to open my eyes when wakin’ from another beatin’.

  I tried to take my mind off the incredible pain by tryin’ to jostle those stakes I was tied to. When I first tried to move the stakes, I found that they wouldn’t budge at all. But that didn’t matter. I needed somethin’ to take my mind off of the pain, so I tried to loosen them stakes every time I woke up. Had I been without the challenge of those stakes, I think I would’ve just gave up and died right there. After many tries, I was some satisfied that I could pull both of them stakes from the ground if I really wanted.

  There came a time when I woke up and was some surprised by what my eyes saw. The Mexican lay on the ground in front of me and he looked stone-cold asleep. I guessed at the time that he wore himself out in the torturin’ of me. I didn’t know exactly why he lay there stone-cold asleep, but I knew I’d best make somethin’ happen right then and there if I could. I might not get another chance.

  Of a sudden, my mind started to swirl with worry. My hands had been tied for hours. What if I made my try to pull up those stakes and found that my hands, arms, and wrists were numb? After all, I’d been tied for what seemed like an eternity, and numbness can surely set in on muscles when they’ve been hindered for too long. My move would surely wake the Mexican, and if I couldn’t pull them stakes free, then another beatin’ was at hand. This time he would probably kill me.

  Then another worry pained my throbbin’ skull even more. Let’s say that I was able to manage them stakes out of the ground – then what? What was I goin’ to do then? I surely wasn’t goin’ to take him in a fistfight, even if I was able to use my arms and hands; I knew I was too weak for that. I knew I’d best think of somethin’ real quick. Right ’bout then, I noticed a good sized rock layin’ on the ground ‘bout five feet to the right of the Mexican. The shape of the rock reminded me of a small cantaloupe what’d been cut in half. That’s how the rock was shaped – like a small, half-sized cantaloupe.

  I’d have to jostle not one, but both of them stakes free without the Mexican wakin’ up. Then I’d have to move real quiet and real fast to that rock, pick it up, and then finish the job. Like I said, I was nervous that my hands, wrists, and arms were not up to the task, that I would make just one wrong move and find my white ass overloaded with one crazy and ferocious Mexican who would beat me to death with his bare hands, or else just blow my brains out.

  ’Bout the time fear started to take over, I just told myself that I hated these bastards more than I’d ever hated anything in my life. These murderers had taken my Little Doe. I owed it to her, as her warrior husband, to settle the score even if it meant losin’ my own life.

  It was due to the same bad luck that has haunted my whole life that the Mexican woke up and cast his eyes right there upon me. His look gave me to know that maybe he suspected I was up to somethin’. It was as if these dirty, rotten sonofabitches could read a man’s mind. I swear, I felt like I was up against all the forces of hell itself. Right ’bout then, he crouched his way to me and reached down to check the stakes. His hot, stinkin’ breath reeked of a damned hog trough. All I knew to do was to put tension on the stakes by slightly pullin’ on ’em with my wrists. This seemed to have satisfied the gnarly stinkin’ bastard, and off he crouched back to the spot from where he came.

  He lay there for a time, lookin’ half-asleep, half-awake. I knew not to make a move until I knew for sure he was asleep. All kinds of thoughts poured through my mind. Did he catch on to my trick of pullin’ against the stakes to make it look like they were still secure in the ground? Was he ’bout to fake sleep so’s to lure me into an escape and kill me?

  Sometimes, w
hen a body is up against it, with nothin’ but his wits betwixt him and eternity, his mind will try and talk him out of takin’ action. But if he doesn’t take action he will surely die, or wind up wishin’ he was dead. This was the kind of conversation I was havin’ with myself out there on those plains, tied to stakes by a murderin’, torturin’ and hairy-faced Mexican hell-bent on drivin’ me mad with beatin’ after beatin’.

  I can sit here and tell you, many years later, that I shiver with fear when I think back on those times of bein’ alone out there on those wide-open plains, goin’ up against the like of such a demonic barbarian. These many years have quieted the hatred, and I feel the fear now that I should’ve felt then.

  After ’bout thirty minutes of me layin’ there contemplatin’ if I’d ever get another chance to kill that Mexican, I looked over to him again and found him sleepin’ like a baby in his mother’s arms.

  I knew the time for thinkin’ was over.

  Slowly, I worked loose the stake what held my left hand. I worked the stake so loose that I knew it would fly right out of the ground with a casual lift of my left arm. But, I made sure to leave the stake in the ground in case the Mexican woke up. Then I did the same thing with the stake holdin’ my right hand.

  Right then I flew from the ground like my ass was afire, grabbed up the rock and went for the Mexican. He woke up all right, but it was too late. By the time he could make a grab for his rifle, I’d bashed in his head real thorough-like, givin’ him two good, strong hits. He lay completely disabled. I took the Navy from his holster and looked down at him for a time to make sure he wasn’t plannin’ on gettin’ back up. My last memory of that Mexican is of him layin’ on the ground, holdin’ his head with both hands and screamin’ like a mountain lion. I knew he weren’t long for this world.