Hawk Eyes Read online

  Poor Beau met his end on July 17, 1863 at the battle of Honey Springs over in the Creek Nation of the Indian Territory. None of us had a chance against the Federals that day, what with fightin’ with wet powder and cheap Mexican rifles – and against an enemy supplied with the best equipment the government of the United States could provide. I managed to get me a few Federals to compensate for Beau before that day was over. Pappy didn’t look at it that way, though, and never forgave me for not bringin’ Beau back alive. I brought Beau back to Fort Smith where Pappy and me buried him under some pecan trees in a quiet little spot down by the Poteau River.

  Of course, Pappy didn’t hold to his word ’bout me not comin’ back home if anything happened to Beau. I guess he needed my help more than he thought he might, what with his havin’ to tend store and his occasional jaunts down into Texas to pick up cattle.

  Nonetheless, things weren’t ever the same after Beau was killed, but Pappy and I did the best we could, and returned to runnin’ more cattle up the Texas Road from Texas. Pappy tended to the store when he was of a mind to. Of course, I took to drinkin’ more whiskey, engagin’ in more fights, and stayin’ up all night with those girls over to the riverfront. I spent most of my time with Isabelle, a blonde-haired beauty fresh up from one of the nicer houses in New Orleans, or so she said. I’m a lot older now, and wish I’d a silver dollar for every beautiful whore who claimed to be fresh up from New Orleans! But I was young then – full of youth, fire and whisky – and I believed every damn word those gals spoke!

  On that last trip down to Texas I met a feller who was one of the most mysterious men I’d ever met. We’d just the day before started our return trip back up the trail with the cattle. We’d made camp along the trail and were beddin’ down for the night when we heard a voice from out in the darkness.

  “Hallo the camp.”

  Pappy told him to come into camp with his hands in the air, and to come a-quiet. Well, it turned out he was peaceable enough, just lookin’ for some grub and a little coffee. He said his name was Charles Baker, said he had recently been with Company B of Waul’s Legion, a Confederate outfit. He was well spoken and well mannered. He was a man of some education. Well, we stayed up most of the night, him tellin’ us ‘bout some of their exploits against the Yankees, and us just listenin’. Of course, we told him ‘bout Beau and the short time we spent fightin’ up in the Territory. But it weren’t Baker’s stories of the war that proved to be the most interestin’ thing he talked ‘bout.

  Everyone went off to sleep except Baker and me, and we kept on talkin’ and drinkin’ coffee. I sensed there was somethin’ else he wanted to talk ‘bout that night, somethin’ he had bottled up for quite a spell. My notion was right.

  He looks over to me and he says, “Boy, let me tell you about somethin’ I haven’t talked about much over these last few years, somethin’ I was a big part of just prior to the outbreak of this fightin’.

  “Before all this fightin’ broke out, I spent some time out in those western mountains, out among the high-up peaks. I had some partners with me – Andrew Peedee, George Briggs, Ben Eaton. Me and those boys, and a few others, traipsed all over out there in that country – the San Juan range.”

  Baker shuffled closer to the fire and threw in more wood.

  “Southwestern Colorado. It’s high in these mountains what sits one of the most beautiful high-mountain parks you’ve ever seen – aspen and spruce everywhere, deer galore, the most majestic peaks in all the Rockies.

  “I’m sure that me and my outfit were among the first white men to ever see or step foot there – outside of some of those early Spanish men, that is.

  “This war will be over soon, with the North comin’ out on top. You damn sure don’t look like one to be stayin’ back in a country bein’ run roughshod over by their like. I’ll just bet that you would like to make the journey with me. You’re welcome if you want to come. There’s something about you – call it the look in your eyes – that tells me you’re one to ride the river with. My plans are to go back to that country in a short time, as soon as this war ends, and when I do, I want you to be with us. I’ll be in Kansas soon, organizing another expedition. I’ll send word to you when the time approaches, if you’re interested.”

  I told him I would have to give the matter some woolin’ over.

  He just smiles and looks straight at me, almost like he was lookin’ straight through my eyes. “You ever held gold in your fingers, son? Gold pebbles? A man can pan the stuff right out of the streams there. I’ve panned it right out of the gravels of the Animas River and the other streams of that San Juan country. I know these streams contain gold – I’ve seen it, panned it myself! Now, I ask, ‘What about the rivers that gather these streams?’ That’s where the gold from these mountain streams should collect. I’m talking about the San Juan and Colorado Rivers. I want to look the entire country over again. Now you interested?”

  I didn’t know what to think ’bout all this here talk of the Animas River, the San Juan, the Colorado and such. I was just takin’ all his talk in, just listenin’. “We’ll see. I’ll be in Fort Smith. You’ll know where to find me.”

  Baker went on ‘bout those San Juan Mountains and that high-mountain park, gettin’ my interest up with every word. He said a man could go into the country from the south if he was of a mind to, takin’ the Animas River north until he reached that high-mountain park surrounded by all them bald-faced peaks. He said you’d know the place when you saw it, that there’d be exactly ten peaks a man could count from the middle of the park. He said that in the summer months, around midnight, the Big Dipper would look like it was pourin’ out its contents over this anvil-shaped peak to the north of the park.

  He went on and on ‘bout this Animas River, sayin’ he had panned all along it and brought up color nearly every time. I remember him goin’ on ‘bout all the little gulches that poured out into the Animas, too. It seemed the one gulch he kept talkin’ ’bout was one he and his men called Eureka Gulch, and this was a place where he’d found the most color. He said a man could just follow the Animas River northeast out of that park until he found Eureka Gulch on the north side just shootin’ and spewin’ water into the river like you ain’t ever seen, especially in late spring or early summer when the bulk of that high-up melt was still hellin’ down country. It was the first wild rushin’ gulch you came across if you was comin’ from the direction of the park.

  “You’ll damn well know you’ve found it when you do.”

  Baker also told me he’d found color in another high-mountain park north of Taos out in New Mexico, high up in the Sangre de Cristo mountains, roughly forty miles up the trail from that old Spanish town. He described both places in detail – the trails, the rivers, and all the major landmarks.

  Baker and I stayed up most of the night, him talkin’ and me mostly just listenin’. He spoke of them Spanish what settled that southwestern country, how them fellers came through the country lookin’ for gold and such. He spoke of the Camino Real, a road them Spanish used to get from deep down in Mexico up to them high-up peaks out there in Colorado. He told me ‘bout that mesa country and caprock country out west, ‘bout the smell of pinion fires of a night, and of the lonesome cry of a coyote whilst you was bedded down underneath starry skies. He said that southwestern country had a beauty all its own, a rugged beauty a man fell in love with, and that set a man to thinkin’ ’bout what this life is all ’bout. He went on and on, talkin’ and recollectin’ more things than I can remember. I reckon I hadn’t ever known a man up to that time what could talk on and on ‘bout somethin’ like Baker could, and sound pretty much like he knew what the hell he was talkin’ ’bout.

  Well, I’ll admit all this talk sounded real romantic to me, me bein’ just a long, tall lanky boy of eighteen who had never been anywhere except western Arkansas, down to east Texas and over in the Indian Nations. I didn’t know quite what to thank ‘bout this here feller callin’ himself Baker, but I couldn’t
help but to hang onto every word he said.

  On many a night durin’ that drive, me and Baker stayed up and he held me in the palm of his hand with stories of the far-off west. I guess you could say I was gettin’ some familiar with country I’d never seen, and gettin’ a kind of history lesson at the same time.

  There finally came a mornin’ when we rolled out of our bedrolls, had a little grub and some coffee and started gettin’ ready for the day’s work ahead. Baker said he appreciated our hospitality and had to be on his way east.

  “I thought you were headin’ to Kansas.”

  Baker looked at me and smiled. “I am. But first, I have business in Shreveport. I hope to see you soon, Hawk Eyes. Good luck with the drive.” Then he waved a farewell and turned his mount east, and I never saw him again in my life. You probably don’t understand why I’m tellin’ you ’bout this man called Baker, but you will understand later. Fact is, all of the stuff Baker told me ‘bout, all of those western rivers and trails, those wide-open plains, those far off mountains and mesas, and the promise of treasure – all of that would lay deep down in my craw for years to come, and I would pull from it later.

  And that was the last time I ever helped push cattle up the Texas Road, or the Shawnee Trail as it was later to be known.

  Back in Fort Smith, Pappy and I made out all right. Like I said before, Pappy tended store most of the time. By September of 1864, the Federals were keepin’ a tight hold on Fort Smith, and they were watchin’ the goin’s and doin’s of most all of us thereabouts. They weren’t ’bout to let Pappy and me head off to Texas anymore to bring back beef to the Confederates in the area.

  As for me, I just raised hell. I think that was my way of kind of sortin’ things out after Beau was killed. I didn’t spend a whole helluva lot of time around Pappy at that point either. I never did amount to much in his eyes, and I damn sure weren’t ace high to him once Beau was gone. Of a day, I kicked around the Garrison Road in any of the different waterin’ holes there, takin’ money off those Yankee soldiers in poker games. When I got tired of doin’ that, I would amble on out of town and practice on somethin’ I picked up from a Texan who fought with us over at Honey Springs, a certain technique of duelin’ those Texans called a “quick draw.” The feller I picked this trick off was a feller by the name of Palmer. I remember thinkin’ at the time how funny it was that a man what could palm a pistol that fast was a man named Palmer. I know now that Palmer must’ve been one of the very first to know of the quick draw, because many a year passed before I would hear the next mention of it.

  Practice as I might at bringin’ that pistol to bear from the holster, I knew it would take a lot of work before I was even close to the speed of Palmer. But I knew I was gettin’ faster each time I tried.

  Of a night, I spent a lot of time with Isabelle over on the riverfront. She had her own little room over there. Her and me were pretty close, so she never made me pay or anything like that. Of course, I didn’t always want to horse around when I saw her – a lot of the time we would spend just talkin’, tellin’ each other how we felt ‘bout things, and the other just listenin’. She said I was the best friend she ever had in her life, and I’ll always count her as one of the truest friends I ever had before or since. I knew that most of the folks in Fort Smith frowned on our friendship, but that didn’t matter a damn to me. I preferred her company to theirs.

  And so that was pretty much the lay of the land up to that mid-September night in 1864, when I found myself in what had come to be a familiar place – a little two-story whorehouse over on the riverfront.

  I was with my beautiful Isabelle that night. I must’ve showed up at her place around midnight. I’ll never forget the feller sittin’ down at the bottom of the stairs holdin’ a Fort Smith Herald over his face so I couldn’t recognize who he was. Only thing was, I knew he was a Yankee by the looks of his government-issue britches. I just laughed as I started up the stairs, as I figured he must’ve been someone important and didn’t want to be recognized as he waited his turn with one of the girls.

  It sure was good to see Isabelle. It always was. I figured she had had a long day and evenin’, so I wasn’t ‘bout to try and get any monkey business started. ’Sides, we’d had our share of good lovin’ on many another night. This night we were both content to just be in each other’s company. We fell asleep around one-thirty in the mornin’. It must’ve been ’bout thirty minutes later that we woke up to a ruckus goin’ on in the next room over. We heard a girl scream as she hit the wall next to where we slept.

  The girl spoke up defiant and devilish-like. “Are all you Yankee officers done so fast?”

  “I ought to slap you again for that, you little southern bitch!” The voice was spoken with a northern accent and by someone who thought a helluva lot of himself. I got up out of bed and started for the door. I was goin’ to grab me a Yankee and beat the livin’ hell out of him.

  Isabelle got up quick-like and grabbed me by the arm. “Don’t go over there. He’s about to leave. Besides, you don’t want to get in trouble with these Yankees. He’ll apologize and then make for the door. It’s always the same with him. He’s not worth the trouble.”

  I stood there waitin’ for one more move out of that flat-headed bluebelly, whoever he was, but everything stayed quiet. It looked like he was through manhandlin’ the girl, so I stayed put.

  Then, sure enough, he went to apologizin’ just like Isabelle said he would. I knew that Isabelle must’ve heard the same bullshit out of the bastard before.

  “You know I didn’t mean it. I’ve had a lot on me lately that’s all. We’ve got a supply wagon coming through the territory from Fort Scott day after tomorrow, and if there’s any hint of Watie and his men around, we’re goin’ to catch hell for it.”

  Then the girl chimed in. “You may catch Buck Taylor. You may finally put a stop to those Choctaws over on the other side of the river. You will never lay a hand on Watie. If Watie decides to take your Yankee supply wagon, he’ll take it.”

  “You Southerners are all alike, ain’t you? Even you Southern whores act all high and mighty. We’ll put a stop to Watie this time, because we’ve put a stop to Watie’s Indian informants – killed ’em dead, in fact. Hung ’em over in those cane breaks outside of town.”

  I hadn’t heard anything ‘bout these so-called informants gettin’ hung outside of town, but it weren’t no secret at all ‘bout Stand Watie and his Cherokee boys. They was givin’ them bluebellies all they wanted over in the Territory. Three months before, Watie and them ambushed the J.R. Williams, a Yankee steamboat headed from Fort Smith to Fort Gibson. The steamboat was carryin’ over $100,000.00 in supplies meant for Federal Indians in the Territory. Once they caught sight of Watie and his men, them Yankees aboard that steamboat lit out of there like a cat with its tail afire. The country thereabouts was soon abuzz with the news of the ambush, and it kind of rekindled the spirit of the Southern hard cases around and ’bout. Fact was, I’d many a Choctaw friend what had left the Confederate ranks before, only to re-enlist once they heard ‘bout the J.R. Williams.

  Well, I couldn’t make out the rest of what was said betwixt that loud-mouthed bastard and the girl in the next room. I contented myself with peekin’ out Isabelle’s door to get a close look at this here feller. It weren’t but a few minutes before he came amblin’ out of there, tuckin’ in his shirt over an enormous gut. He had a big fat face with a broad nose and pig eyes, and I knew I’d seen him before in one of the saloons on the Garrison Road. Fact is, last time I’d seen him, he was busy cheatin’ an honest man in a poker game. I wouldn’t have remembered the occasion but for the fact that his victim was just a poor farmer from south of town who didn’t have the good sense to know a card cheat when he saw one. And I was pretty sure that he was the same feller I saw readin’ the newspaper when I came in the front door earlier, judgin’ by the looks of his Yankee britches.

  He lumbered down the stairs, and then I heard him close the front door as he left
.

  It was right there in that span of a few minutes that I decided to do somethin’ that I was to regret for many a year later. I’ve already told you I didn’t think I was stackin’ up to much in Pappy’s eyes. But right then I figured I had an opportunity to remedy the situation with my Pappy, to maybe do somethin’ he would find some favor with, and to maybe make him think a little more highly of me. I decided to get the hell out of this here whorehouse, and pronto, to go and saddle up Red, my bay horse what was corralled over behind Pappy’s store, and then light a fire to Skullyville.

  Skullyville lay just ‘bout ten or so miles to the west of Fort Smith in the Choctaw Nation. I was goin’ to pay a visit to my good friend Charlie Black Bear who lived near Skullyville in a cabin down by the river. Charlie was one of them Choctaws I’d hung around with a lot in my boyhood days, him and Big Buck Wright. I knew Charlie would know how to get word to Watie and his men ‘bout the Federal supply wagon comin’ through in a short while. Charlie had his connections with all them Confederate Indians over in the Territory. If Watie and his men could somehow get word of this supply wagon comin’ through, then maybe, just maybe, they could get to it in time for another little ambush. And all because of me overhearin’ one loud-mouthed Yankee, upstairs in a Fort Smith whorehouse.

  Now, I already told you that them Yankees had the entire town of Fort Smith encircled. Well, that fact was posin’ some degree of difficulty for me at the moment. If I was goin’ to get to Skullyville, I was not only goin’ to have to get through the barricade surroundin’ the town, I was goin’ to have to get Red and myself across the river in order to head southwest.

  Fact was, I’d a choice of two different rivers to cross – the Poteau or the Arkansas. You see, the Poteau runs right into the Arkansas, and it’s right there at that point that the town of Fort Smith was first set up. I preferred crossin’ the Poteau River, as I knew of a narrow little place to cross not far from where Red was coralled. I preferred crossin’ the Poteau for another reason, too: If I chose crossin’ the Arkansas on my way out of town, I would have to cross it again before I got to Skullyville, and I didn’t want do that. I could just amble southwest out of town a little ways, cross the Poteau, and be done with crossin’ rivers. Of course, I would have a few little creeks betwixt me and Skullyville, but that wouldn’t be no problem at all.