Hawk Eyes

by David Althouse

  I gotta tell you, I was plumb mad at myself for allowin’ myself to get into this fix. It was due to a certain amount of greenness that the situation had come to this. I should’ve done him in with that last cartridge. Now I was goin’ to have to tangle with him up close, and that weren’t a good thing at all. When two men get to fightin’ at close range like that, anything can happen. One might kill the other and still wind up seriously wounded himself. That weren’t the kind of odds I liked.

  It was due to the plain bad luck so typical of my life story that I found myself out on the wide-open plains of the Indian Territory havin’ to square off with a savage the likes of Buffalo Skull, a twisted demonic bastard too evil to know fear. It was startin’ to look like I got myself into a fix for sure, and it was some difficult there at the beginnin’ tryin’ to figure a way out of it.

  The more I thought ’bout it the more I knew I was just goin’ to have to square off with Buffalo Skull up close. There weren’t no gettin’ around that fact.

  As I look back on it years later, I realize I should’ve been scared shitless. But I wasn’t. The fear I had was just in the right amounts, a fear that allowed my mind to try and cipher this thing out. My soul was eaten up with a pure hatred for the animal that took my Little Doe. The hatred had eaten me through and through, and when you are possessed of such hatred, it can cause you to think in ways you never have before.

  Now, I’m goin’ to admit somethin’ right now that few men would ’fess up to. As I stood there and watched Buffalo Skull hellin’ his way across the plains to me, I knew that I was no match for the ferocious kind of hatred he lived with every day of his life. Sure, I hated his ever-livin’ guts, but there was an evil within him that wasn’t within me. I’d seen first-hand the work of Buffalo Skull. I’d seen the aftermaths of the atrocities he’d committed against white folks headin’ west. I knew I was up against somethin’ from the bowels of hell, a bona fide devil more dangerous than any rattlesnake or scorpion.

  Somehow, I was goin’ to have to outsmart the bastard.

  There I was, up against it with nothin’ but my Bowie knife, and Buffalo Skull was almost right there on me. At that moment, my mind paid no heed to my enemy’s soulless eyes, his animal-like face, his demonic voice, or his backtrail of murder, torture, and terror. My mind was operatin’ real workman-like, cold and calculatin’.

  All to once, everything seemed to slow down in my mind’s eye, as had happened so many times before when I was face-to-face with serious trouble, and I was surely face-to-face with it now. I stood there and watched Buffalo Skull runnin’ toward me, ’bout a hundred yards out from my location. I seen his face real clear, and I seen his muscles flexin’ and movin’ as he ran hell-for-leather right at me, determined to kill me and leave my body rottin’ out there on the open plains. Although he was runnin’ as fast as he could, it appeared to me that he was comin’ at a slow jog.

  It’s always that way when the answer comes to me from wherever it comes at those moments. As strange as it sounds, I found the sight interestin’. At that moment, what I needed to do became as clear to me as rushin’ water in a Rocky Mountain stream. If I was goin’ to kill Buffalo Skull by sundown, it was necessary that I get to runnin’, and that’s just what I did.

  Of course, I wasn’t callin’ it runnin’. I called it a dance, but not in the sense of a jig you’d dance at a Saturday night box social. No sir, this little dance was goin’ to lead to the death of either me or Buffalo Skull. Then it came to me – this would be a Death Dance, and Buffalo Skull was goin’ to be my partner.

  Of a sudden, I allowed that I wasn’t goin’ to let an ignorant savage the likes of a Buffalo Skull outdo me one-on-one out there on those wide-open plains. Before the day was through, I allowed that Buffalo Skull was goin’ to enjoy a good runnin’ look at the country thereabouts, courtesy of Hawk Eyes. The particulars of my plan went to perambulatin’ around in my head and took more shape with each passin’ second. Soon, I was confident that my thinkin’ was a notch or two higher than his, that I’d covered all my bases, and that it was time for the first step of my plan to send this ugly bastard back down to his fiery home in hell – even if I had to follow him there myself.

  Hatred does not easily run, but that’s what I premeditated to do at that moment – not out of fear – even though I possessed a healthy dose of it – but out of a desire to show more fear than I was stricken with. The Death Dance was ’bout to commence, and Buffalo Skull had no idea that it was goin’ to take up a big part of his day.

  I wanted that ignorant sonofabitch to think I was scared out of my mind. I wanted him to chase me to hell and back, to get him worn down by a nice long run, and then I wanted to finish the job I started.

  So, I took off runnin’ like a bat out of hell. A good dance starts with one of the dance partners takin’ the lead step, and that’s exactly what I did.

  I’d guess that my pursuer was behind me ‘bout fifty yards when I took off, but the distance started to widen almost immediately. What my chaser didn’t know was that I could run all day and all night, runnin’ at a jog one minute, and then speedin’ it up to a near sprint the next. I was hard as a tack back in them days, havin’ spent my entire upbringin’ chasin’ after and runnin’ from my Choctaw friends all over those Windin’ Stair Mountains of eastern Indian Territory.

  I sure was seein’ some pretty country that day – and all of it whilst afoot. I was runnin’ through sagebrush and tall grass, suckin’ in the wind and watchin’ for deep holes. I’d turn to look back and damned if that bastard demon seed wasn’t fallin’ farther behind. So I slowed down some to let him catch up. I didn’t want him to lose interest in our little party. If he gave up, then I’d have to go back and face him whilst he was still fresh. I wasn’t ‘bout to do that. I’d already made a bad judgment call when I squandered that last .44 cartridge, and I couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes that day.

  Now and then, I’d run up on a pool of water what collected the night before durin’ the storm. Some were ’bout five feet wide, and others ‘bout ten. I galloped up to them and jumped ’em like a gallavantin’ horse. Weren’t nothin’ gonna get in my way that mornin’ ’cause I was havin’ me some damn good fun!

  We’d put ’bout five miles behind us in no time at all. I’ll have to give it to Buffalo Skull – he was one game demon sonofabitch from hell. He weren’t ’bout to let me get away from him. But what that ignorant hellion didn’t realize is that I didn’t want to get shuck of him! I was sure havin’ a hard time not laughin’ my ass off at the humor of it all as I ran that stupid sonofabitch all across the far western edge of Indian Territory on that beautiful spring day.

  When we’d made what I thought was ’bout ten miles I was gettin’ some worried that my pursuer was tirin’ of the game. I felt like I could’ve run for another twenty miles or more, but he kept laggin’ farther and farther behind, and I was worried that he would figure out that I was slowin’ down for him intentional-like. I didn’t think he was smart enough to figure out that he was getting’ hoodwinked, but I didn’t want to stake my life on it, either.

  Of a sudden, the thought dawned on me that I was sure runnin’ far afield from Amigo, that when I was done with this little dance, I’d have to get myself all the way back to him. My mind flirted with the notion of pullin’ up short right there and finishin’ it.

  But I didn’t.

  That half-cocked notion was a shortcut that could’ve got me killed. I’d already blown the last cartridge of that Henry because I didn’t think things out all the way. No sir, I told myself, you keep runnin’ your white ass across those plains until that stupid savage bastard behind you is played out. I knew I had to finish this job right if that meant havin’ to traverse a hundred miles back across the plains back to retrieve Amigo.

  I figured I must’ve led my pursuer another five miles across those plains before the time for killin’ started to look right. I started pullin’ back, slowin’ down, and generally makin’
it look like I was done runnin’. I went to holdin’ my side and stumblin’ to pass off a look of exhaustion. I kept turnin’ around to look back as if worried that he was catchin’ up.

  Buffalo Skull was ’bout forty-five yards behind me when I stopped, turned around, and fired an empty pistol. Of course, I knew that pistol was empty of rounds, because that crazy Mexican had tossed all my ammo out. I faked a few squeezes of the trigger, gave a look of surprise and frustration all to once when the gun didn’t boom, then turned and began runnin’ again.

  By that time, Buffalo Skull was ten yards away and closin’ in, and he was thinkin’ that a runnin’ coward was played out from runnin’ and totally without a weapon of any kind. He got so close to me that I felt his hot breath on the back of my neck and heard his laugh break the beauty of a beautiful spring day. It was a laugh both evil and grisly.

  I’d made sure to hide that Bowie durin’ the entire run that day. I had her tucked down the right side of those buckskin britches Little Doe made me, and it was a beautiful thing when I pulled her out, turned around, stabbed low and pulled upward fast, slicin’ that devilish hellhound from stem to stern.

  Those evil eyes of his got as big as silver dollars, they did, and they ’bout popped out of his skull with the look of fear and surprise all to once. I pulled the blade out of his ribs, and then he crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes, lifeless as a piece of wood. I reached down and removed the red bandana from around his head and the silver and turquoise necklace from around his neck. I wasn’t through with that Bowie, though. I commence to takin’ the business side of the wide blade across the top of his head with my right hand, pullin’ up his long black hair with my left, and takin’ me some scalp. Havin’ appropriated my trophy, I decided the Death Dance was over. Now, it was time to dance a victory dance, which I did, screamin’ and singin’ over his cold, dead body. I sang to the top of my lungs, tellin’ the Great Spirit that I’d done my job, and tellin’ Little Doe that evil had been outdone by her warrior husband.

  Three days later, I rode into Chisholm’s tradin’ post to pay my last respects at Little Doe’s marker, to say goodbye to the old plainsman who’d become my good friend, and to present Buffalo Skull’s scalp and necklace so that Chisholm could tell the entire Cherokee Nation that Hawk Eyes had avenged the death of their beautiful princess.

  When I got there, Chisholm was bein’ visited by a couple of Federal officers, each dressed in government blue. I didn’t know who they were and didn’t ask. I showed the necklace and scalp to Chisholm and he looked at me like he no longer knew me. I looked over to the soldier boys and their eyes showed big and bright, and they were speechless. Chisholm assured me he would tell the Cherokee folk in and around Tahlequah the story of Little Doe and Hawk Eyes, that he would tell ’em of her death at the hands of devils, and that the score now lay settled by her man who would never love another woman. I knew he was as good as his word.

  Chisholm was kind enough to give me a goodly supply of .44 rimfire cartridges for the Henry.

  Of a sudden, before I reached the door to the cabin, Chisholm hails me back. He opens his pack and pulls out a large lock of raven black hair, tied together with a braided leather band, and presents it to me. I fought back the tears upon realizing it was the hair of my beautiful Little Doe. I thanked him and bid farewell to the leather-faced old plainsman as the two federals looked on in silence.

  Then, Amigo and me crossed the North Canadian for the last time, lightin’ out to the west once again. From then on, I’d never live east of the Texas Panhandle.

  It was finally time to see those far western lands told of by Charles Baker and Jesse Youngbird.

  10 Mesas, Mountains, Gold, and the Hangman’s Noose

  The heat of summer came early that year. Late May found me traipsin’ across the Texas Panhandle and on through to the mesa country of eastern New Mexico, lyin’ low and travelin’ at a snail’s pace. The heat had been a punishin’ thing out there on those plains and it carried over to the mesa country to boot. I’d not pushed myself hard on the trek west. I weren’t in no hurry to see folks, anyways. Folks was trouble, I’d figured out. They came onto the scene and made you happy, and then someone would take ’em from your life and it seemed like the end of the world.

  Of course, I realized that people wouldn’t want to be around me, either. Hell, why should they? The memory of Little Doe pulled against me, makin’ me to drag ass and feel sorry for myself every single day. I wouldn’t be no kind of company for decent folks, at least not until the sun started to shine once again. All of that was just more reason to fight shy of folks, and I decided that’s just what I was goin’ to do.

  I was pushin’ westward with those kind of thoughts rulin’ over me one hot May afternoon when the first of those haunted mesas showed themselves to me, offerin’ welcome relief to those endless plains I’d been livin’ on for so many months. The burden of the heat lay atop all the horrible things what had happened recently, and I just pushed forward, but the sight of them mesas gave me to look on with the beginnin’ of a new set of eyes.

  I sat atop Amigo, my body drenched in sweat, and beheld those mesas what looked like castles to a man who’d spent what seemed like an eternity out there on the plains of the Indian Territory and the Texas Panhandle.

  Somethin’ told me to stay right there for a bit and to drink in the whole scene. Not knowin’ from where that voice came, I decided to listen to it anyways. So, I slid down off Amigo and just stood there, holdin’ the reins, lookin’ at those mesas, and takin’ in all of that country to the west.

  Of a sudden, great clouds rolled in, pushin’ their way east and north, up over them mesas, and a great, cool breeze came along with ’em. The wind and mist off those mesas kissed my face and I felt the coolness coat my whole body. I looked westward and could see the still snow-capped peaks of those Sangre de Cristos. I wondered what secrets awaited me up in that high-up country told of by Baker and Youngbird. Those mountains stood like invitin’ fingers as I stood coolin’ by those nearby mesas. That cool wind, along with the few raindrops, had blown from those massive peaks to the west, came down to the lower country to caress those mesas, and I stood there cooled off by, and amazed at, this wonderful new world in which I found myself.

  It was right then that I knew I’d never leave this country. Somehow, this new world promised life anew for ol’ Hawk Eyes, and that far off country to the west – with its snow-capped peaks, aspen, and fir – teased me onward. No sir, this was the country for me, and, right then, I knew it just as sure as I knew the sun would come up in the east the next mornin’.

  Somehow, the sights, sounds, smells, and feel of this new country put a spring back in my step. Me and Amigo started to make good time on the trail. The next day, we crossed the Santa Fe Trail and started edgin’ our way first into the foothills and then into the high-up country of those Sangre de Cristos. Man, I knew I was in love with that mountain and mesa country! I knew this was my country, that I belonged here!

  Soon, I realized I was in the area of what would one day be Elizabethtown, the new minin’ camp what’d been talked ’bout back at Chisholm’s place. I came down into a big valley covered with horse and wagon tracks, the first sign that maybe I was near the camp. I circled wide and around, so’s to avoid people, but pretty soon I was hearin’ the yellin’ and cursin’ of minin’ men nearby. I seen ’em but they didn’t see me, and that was just fine by my thinkin’. Sure, I was lookin’ for gold, but if findin’ gold also meant findin’ people then I would count myself out.

  I took a game trail to the west and a day later found myself in one of the prettiest little high-mountain parks you ever seen. One of the first things I noticed ’bout this new country was the abundance of game all around – white tail, mulies, and a lot of evidence of elk. A man would have to be a sorry sight not to eat good around these parts, I thought at the time.

  I’ll never forget my first night up there in that high-mountain park. I laid there tha
t summer night lookin’ up at the numerous spruce and pine covered peaks cast against the starlit night sky. This was such a vast, wonderful new world to me. I wanted to search every square foot of it – every slope, every ancient trail, every view from atop these high-up majestic peaks. I looked up at the peak to the south and a near full moon hung almost directly over it. The moonlight bouncin’ off them clouds lit up the sky over that peak. I wondered what secrets lay up there beneath that bright, shiny moon. I knew I would climb up there and find out. The wind blew its whistle through the aspen and spruce, and I was sure enjoyin’ my life in this little piece of heaven.

  Traipsin’ around that beautiful high-mountain park set my mind to thinkin’ ’bout my plans for the summer. I figured I’d give this New Mexico mountain country a good goin’ over for ‘bouta month before settin’ out for that Colorado country told of first by Baker and then by Youngbird. I’d gallivant through Baker’s high-mountain park for ’bout the same time and then set out for some other country up that way, look it over, and then perambulate my way down out of there for the winter. I knew the last place on earth I’d want to be durin’ the winter is up in that high-mountain country, unless I wanted to freeze to death.

  I decided to take the game trail to the top of what folks today call Flag Mountain. Amigo, his ears were pricked, and he was ready to take out at a brisk clip. We headed out on a mornin’ that was chill for sure, but Amigo and me were both glad to be on the trail; the both of us were always ready to see what was around the next bend. Amigo kicked up dust with each clop of the hoof as we elbowed massive rockslides and horseshoed around great rocks thrust up from the ground.

  A couple of gray squirrels frolicked up a spruce tree in front of us, and on up the trail we came upon a mulie bedded down amongst some brush in a little clearing. He no doubt heard us go by, but did little to show it. This, once again, reminded me of how plentiful wild game was in those days to any hunter worth his salt. My trail bags were flush with enough jerky and pemmican to last quite a spell, so I left ol’ mulie alone that day.