Duel at Low Hawk

The buckskin moved at a comfortable pace that effectively chewed up the miles, a pace the broad-chested horse could maintain for hours on end. It was for this and other reasons that John Ward rode a buckskin. The breed had more stamina than most others, more determination, harder feet, better bones, and a willingness to stand up to tests that might cause other horses to back down. John needed a strong horse. He was a big man.

Passing through patches of heavy sedge two feet tall, John Ward followed an obvious trail that never veered from an eastward course. It was late in the spring now. Already there were signs of budding on the sage. In spite of being in Kansas Territory, and soon to be in Missouri, if the trail continued east, John gave no thoughts toward the matter of jurisdiction. As long as he had a warm trail, he would follow it to the end, no matter where it led. Considering the manner of man he pursued, however, he was mildly surprised that Boot had not fled back to Indian Territory where there was a scarcity of law enforcement.

A day and a half after leaving Douglas Fannin’s store in Oswego, John came to the mining settlement proclaiming itself to be Joplin. As he walked Cousin slowly through the camp, he was conscious of the stares of the occasional miner, receiving a nod from one or two, as they looked upon another suspicious stranger. Had he known the circumstances that prompted the cool reception, he would have understood the absence of a friendly greeting.

The trail so easily followed from Oswego was now obliterated among the many tracks in the mining camp, so he guided Cousin toward the one larger structure near the center of the community. It was typical, he thought, that the one commercial business in the entire camp was a saloon. Dropping Cousin’s reins loosely across the hitching post, he stepped up on the low stoop and went inside.

Coming in from the bright sunlight, he had to pause inside the door for a few moments, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the bar. After a brief period, he made out the form of the bartender sitting in a chair at the far end of the bar. There was no one else in the room.

Barney took a glass from the shelf behind him, blew the dust out of it, and filled it from the tap. “We’re gettin’ to be a regular tourist stop,” he said when he set the glass on the bar. “You’re the second stranger we’ve had in two days. Make that three if you count the Injun girl.”

Barney jerked his head back as if recoiling. “He shot a whore, he did.” Nodding his head up and down vigorously for emphasis, he added, “The only whore in this camp.” Pausing to see if John appreciated the seriousness of that, he then asked, “Why are you lookin’ for him? Are you a lawman?”

“Much obliged,” John said, and swallowed the last gulp of beer. He started toward the door with Barney right behind him. Opening the door and squinting into the bright sunlight, he couldn’t help but remark, “You know, if you’da built some windows in this place, a man wouldn’t go blind goin’ in and out.”

Outside, Barney pointed out the path Boot took when he galloped away. John thanked him and climbed aboard Cousin. As he was riding away, Barney called after him. “That son of a bitch stole money from me, too. Maybe if you catch him, you could get it back for me.”

He was anxious to pick up Stoner’s trail, knowing now that he was less than a full day behind. It took some time, however, to pick out the tracks he searched for among the many around the camp. Before, he could distinguish the mule prints from the horses’, making the trail easier to follow. Unfortunately, there were as many mule tracks around the mining camp as horses’, maybe more. Consequently, he followed a couple of false trails before settling on the one he felt certain was that of Boot Stoner, the girl, Lilly, and their two pack mules. He had closed the gap between himself and the bloodthirsty outlaw. Of that, he was certain, but there was still a lot of ground to make up.

Boot Stoner woke up hungry and chilly. The fire had died out to nothing more than a few live coals. His immediate reaction was anger, and he rolled over on his side, intending to give the slumbering Creek girl a kick. Lilly was not there. He assumed that she had retreated to the bushes to relieve herself. Angry that she had not built up the fire before tending to her physical needs, he yelled out for her. “Lilly! Get your lazy ass back here and make me some coffee!” Expecting an immediate rustle of bushes signaling the girl’s response to his command, he began to fume over her disobedience. Throwing his blanket aside, he stormed up from his bed with the intention of administering the punishment she deserved.

Stalking toward the path she had chosen the night before to answer nature’s call, he yelled out her name again. Still there was no answer. After a few moments more of silence, the fact that she might have fled occurred to him. Beyond anger, he stamped about in the brush, searching, knowing as each second passed that the girl was not there. She was gone! The thought infuriated him so that her recapture dominated all other thoughts. Then another thought occurred that caused him to panic. The horses! He turned around and ran back to the stream where the horses were hobbled. Much to his immediate relief, his horse was still grazing near the water’s edge. Across the stream, the two mules were contentedly munching on fresh shoots of spring grass, but Lilly’s horse was gone.

“Damn mules!” he swore. He picked up a stone and threw it at the nearest mule, having to vent his anger on something. The unsuspecting animal jerked sideways when the stone struck its flank and moved a few yards away before resuming its grazing. “You think you can run from me?” he roared, looking at the mule, but directing his wrath toward the missing Indian girl. Searching along the stream bank then, he found tracks pointing south.

Forgoing breakfast, he rolled up his blanket and picked up his saddle, furious in his eagerness to pick up Lilly’s trail. When he reached up to take the horse by the bridle, there was no bridle. Confused at first, for although the horses were hobbled, he had left the bridles on, his anger now reached the point of rage. “That Creek bitch!” he cursed. “She’s as good as dead.” Fuming and cursing, for he assumed Lilly had taken the bridle with her, he took a length of rope and fashioned an Indian bridle with two half hitches in the middle, looped around the horse’s lower jaw. The horse was not pleased with the strange rope around its jaw, and tossed its head repeatedly in protest. Boot responded with a sharp crack across the animal’s face with his rifle barrel. The horse, subdued for the moment, allowed Boot to throw the saddle on.

In the saddle then, Boot kicked the horse in the flanks and jerked on the rope reins. Finding the rope an irritation, the horse renewed its protest, proceeding to wheel around and around in a circle when Boot attempted to guide it with a pull in one direction. After a furious battle between man and horse, and a severe beating with a tree limb, the horse finally accepted its new bridle. Under way at last, Boot set out after Lilly nearly blind with rage. Crossing the stream some fifty yards south of the camp, he failed to spot the bridle hanging from the lower branch of a sweet gum tree. As before, the mules tagged along behind until Boot turned in the saddle and fired several pistol shots at them. Neither mule was hit, but they wisely dropped back, deeming it sensible to trail the irate half-breed from a greater distance.

Rugged and foreboding, the Boston Mountains loomed up before the desperate Indian girl. A land of steep slopes and deep river valleys, rocky cliffs and forests thick with red oak and hickory, as well as the ever-present pine, her mountains were the highest of the Ozark Plateau. Birthplace of the White and Buffalo Rivers, the harsh area had served as hideout for more than one gang of bushwhackers and rebel guerrilla bands during the War Between the States.

Nearing exhaustion, Lilly pushed her weary horse onward. She would not permit the horse to rest until she was safely into the slopes at the base of the mountains. Riding without pause throughout the night, and now until dusk of the following day, she, like her mount, was in dire need of food, water, and rest. On foot now, she led the drained animal up into a ravine where a trickle of water from an underground spring bubbled up between the roots of a large oak tree. This would have to do until her horse had rested enough to carry her higher up into the mountains.

Using her knife, she carved a hole in the earth around the roots of the oak to form a small basin for her horse to drink. After pulling the saddle off, she used the saddle blanket to wipe some of the sweat from the horse’s back while the grateful animal drank from the basin. Unable to keep her mind from the image of the cruel face of Boot Stoner, she could not resist the constant urge to look over her shoulder, expecting the savage half-breed to suddenly appear. Although her rational mind told her that it was unlikely, if not impossible, for Boot to have caught up to her, she feared he was possessed of such evil medicine that he could summon dark spirits to help him. With thoughts like these to haunt her, she resolved to move farther into the mountains as soon as her horse was rested. As for herself, she would remain vigilant, reserving her time to rest until after she had found a place she felt was safe. She knew he was set upon returningto the Nations, and when she first fled from her captor, she had hoped that he would not feel it worth his time to follow her. Deep inside, however, she feared he would come after her, if only to kill her.

Not willing to risk a fire, for fear the smoke might be spotted, she made a meal of some dried meat taken from Fannin’s store. There seemed to be an abundance of small game in the hills about her, so she was confident she would be able to find food once she found a safe place to hide. She had her flint and steel to make a fire, and she could fashion a snare from the short length of rope on her saddle. Fighting the almost overpowering urge to close her eyes for a few minutes’ rest, she ate her beef strips while constantly watching her back trail.

As soon as she felt her horse was rested, she left the ravine and pushed on, following a narrow valley that appeared to lead deeper into the towering mountains. After riding for approximately two hours, she found that the valley broadened into a wide meadow leading up to a river that flowed through the mountains. The other side of the river was bordered by lofty cliffs of limestone that reached straight up for hundreds of feet.

Pausing at the edge of the river to let her horse drink from the clear, cool water, she peered ahead, as far down the river as she could see. The setting sun was now at her back as her eyes followed the river’s course to the east. Soon it would be dark. Again, unable to resist the urge, she looked back along the way she had come, but there was no sign that anyone other than herself was in the valley. It was time to think about making camp for the night.

Thinking the riverbank was too exposed, even at night, she followed the river farther east until she came to a creek. With darkness almost upon her, she followed the creek back into the hardwood forest for several hundred feet before selecting her campsite. After hobbling the horse by the creek, she gathered enough dead limbs to build a small fire. By the time the flames were healthy, darkness had descended upon the quiet watercourse, draping a deep black shroud around the tiny glow of her fire. Finally, too weary to worry about Boot Stoner for the moment, she finished the rest of the dried beef and was sound asleep within seconds.

Burley Chase sat down and slid to the bottom of the steep slope on his behind. Upon reaching the bottom of the wooded draw, he got to his feet and, with one casual swipe of his hand, brushed the dead leaves from his seat. All the while, his eyes searched the faint trail that had led him down the mountainside to the creek. She was a fine-looking doe. Burley had spotted the four deer when they began to move just after first light. He hadn’t approached quietly enough, so they scattered when they heard him in the trees above them. He wasn’t particularly proud of that, but he had his mind set on venison, so he gave chase. Forgetting the others, Burley went after the doe. She looked fat and sassy.

She had run about fifty yards along the slope before stopping to see if anything was after her. Burley almost got within range to take a shot at her, but she turned and descended the steep slope to the creek bottom. He had no choice but to try again. He could have taken a long shot, but cartridges were precious, and hard to come by. He could not afford to waste them. “I’m gettin’ too damn old to run a damn deer down,” he complained as he crept along the creek bank.

“I know you’re in here, darlin’,” he murmured. “I can feel you.” Carefully placing one foot at a time, he inched his way closer to a thicket of laurel. Suddenly he saw slight movement of the branches on the other side of the creek. Instantly he dropped to one knee, thinking he had stumbled upon one of the other deer, for he was certain the doe had not crossed over. Peering intently at the thicket, he decided to forget the doe and take the closer shot. There was just a brief glimpse of brown hide showing through the leaves, and he figured the shot would not be there for long. He raised his carbine and sighted on the target. Wish I could see a little more of the damn thing, he thought, so I’d know whether I’m shooting the ass end or the head. As his finger poised to squeeze the trigger, the bushes parted a little and a head pushed through. But instead of a deer, it was a horse’s head.

Burley froze, afraid to move. Startled to find a horse in this part of the mountains, his initial thought was that it was ridden by a lawman, possibly looking for him. After a few moments stalled by indecision, he deemed it in his best interest to immediately withdraw. Stepping carefully and quietly, skills acquired out of necessity to survive in this mountain wilderness, he made his way back up through the hardwood forest to a sandstone ledge from which he could watch the creek below him. He decided it best to get a look at the intruder to see if, in fact, there was any threat to him.

It had been years since he had taken refuge in these mountains, and Burley had lost count of the seasons that had passed. The rest of his gang of bushwhackers had long since returned to their homes after the war, seeking amnesty, or had moved west. A few had been caught by the federals while trying to buy supplies in the settlements. Burley had chosen to live off the land. He was an outlaw. Of that there was no denial. But he had not started out that way. Joining a group of guerrillas led by Jack Wheeler, Burley, like most of the others, had sought to punish the Yankee troops who invaded his homeland. As the war wound down, however, the gang turned toward attacks on civilian targets with no military significance. It had become a matter of survival, and the raids became more and more justifiable in their minds. Before they were finally dispersed, Bloody Jack Wheeler’s name became synonymous with bushwhacker and was despised by Reb and Yankee alike. Two months after Lee’s surrender, Bloody Jack was shot in the head by a farmer who caught him in his barn stealing chickens. It was a somewhat less than glorious demise for a group of men claiming to proudly fight for the Confederacy.

Burley figured his family and friends had long since given him up for dead, and that was the way he wanted it. Fearing a prison cell, he preferred to live out his years here in the mountains. This intruder today was not the first to venture into this wilderness. There had been others, hunters and trappers, most just passing through. Burley had managed to stay out of sight until they had gone. And none had stumbled upon his cave under the waterfall. But he had almost blundered into this situation today, and at this point, he didn’t know if it was one man or a posse. So he waited and watched.

The sun made its initial appearance for the day before Burley detected any further movement in the trees by the creek. Minutes after the morning sunlight penetrated the leaves of the hickory and oak, a person appeared briefly by the creek bank. “Well, I’ll swear . . .” Burley muttered. It looked like a woman. Moments later, he changed his mind. “A girl,” he said to himself. “An Injun girl.” Peering as hard as he could in an effort to see through the trees, he looked for her companion. Surely she was not alone up here in the mountains. Try as he might, however, he could not see anyone else.

Deciding that even if there was someone with her, they did not pose any threat to him, he determined to take a closer look. Backing down from the ledge, he worked his way across the slope until he found a place where he could get a broader look at the creek bank. Parting the juniper leaves before him, he peered through to discover a scene he found most surprising. There was no one with her, just one young girl with one horse, and she looked to be trying to rig a snare by the creek bank. I’m damned if I know what she thinks she’ll catch with that, he thought, shaking his head in disbelief. Well, ain’t none of my affair, he thought, and prepared to retreat to his cave, the deer hunt having been effectively canceled for the morning.

He picked up his carbine and took a step backward, preparing to leave, but something about the girl made him hesitate. What in the world is an Indian girl doing here in the Boston Mountains, he wondered, by herself, this far from the Nations, where she most likely came from? She looked to be about the age of his daughter when he had left wife and family to join Bloody Jack Wheeler. That thought proceeded to tug at his conscience a bit as he watched Lilly’s wasted efforts with her snare. Annie, his daughter, used to catch rabbits with a snare. He had a sudden attack of melancholy when he thought about how long it had been since he had seen her. “Damned old fool,” he muttered. “I’m probably gonna regret this.” He started to make his way down toward the creek.

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.

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?”

“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.”

“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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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 reins, 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.