Duel at Low Hawk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  ALMOST GOT HIM

  Scrambling to his feet, John ran to cut the fleeing outlaw off, hoping to get a clear shot when Boot was on horseback. To further frustrate the lawman, however, Boot pulled Lilly up behind him on his horse, and grabbing the reins of Lilly’s horse, he bounded out of the clearing at a gallop, the mules following behind on the lead rope. Cutting across the clearing, John was in a position to fire, but with Lilly behind Boot, he couldn’t take the chance. He was left with no choice but to let the outlaw go. . . .

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, July

  Copyright © Charles G. West, 2007

  All rights reserved

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  For Ronda

  Chapter 1

  It was a chilly spring morning when they opened the outer gate at Arkansas State Prison and ushered Boot Stoner outside the wall. When the gate closed behind him, one of the guards commented to another, “We sure as hell ain’t doin’ the world no favor by lettin’ that son of a bitch outta here.”

  Twelve long and bitter years had passed since Boot had last been outside the high walls. He was sixteen when they sent him up to do time for cattle rustling and stealing a horse. If he heard the guard’s remark, he paid it no mind. He had other things to think about. Owning nothing more than the suit of clothes the state of Arkansas issued him upon release, he was penniless and far from home. It was two hundred miles, as the crow flies, from Little Rock to the trading post his father had built eighteen miles north of Fort Gibson in the Cherokee Nation, and Boot had no way to get there other than on foot. Home was the only place he knew to go at this juncture in his life, even though his father had kicked him out long before he was arrested.

  He took one last look at the place that had been his home for the past twelve years and vowed right then never to return. This promise to himself was not made because he had learned his lesson and planned to walk the straight and narrow—far from it. As he saw it, society owed him a helluva lot for locking him up for most of his young years, and he intended to collect upon that debt with interest. As for his vow never to return—the law would have to kill him next time. He had seen all of the inside of those walls he intended to see. With these thoughts in mind, he turned to face west and started walking.

  Boot had been given a paper verifying his time served, and advised that he must report to the federal district office in Fort Smith within five days. There had evidently been no consideration given to the fact that he would have to walk a hundred and twenty-five miles in that time. It made little difference to Boot Stoner. He planned to ignore the directive anyway.

  Although just appointed to the Western District the year before, Judge Isaac C. Parker was a name with which Boot was familiar, and he had no intention of ever seeing the man. His only plan was to head straight for Indian Territory. If the opportunity presented itself along the way, he would steal a horse to carry him. If not, he would walk every step of the way. Lean and hard, and prison-tough, Boot was capable of walking to the Pacific Ocean if necessary.

  There were certain things that he intended to give some long-awaited attention. Foremost among these was to settle with one Jacob Mashburn. Mashburn’s testimony was the key piece of evidence that slammed the prison door on Boot Stoner. Boot knew there was no chance that Mashburn had seen him steal a horse from his corral. But Mashburn pointed him out and swore that Boot was the man. The fact that Boot actually did steal the red roan was beside the point. It was in the dark of night, and Mashburn could not have been certain if the thief was Boot or any of the other three rustlers who stampeded the cattle. The fact that Boot was a half-breed seemed to help the judge believe Mashburn’s eyewitness report. At any rate, Boot planned to make Mashburn pay for his testimony.

  He walked until dark on his first day of freedom, leaving the town of Little Rock behind him. Passing isolated farms along the dusty road, he gave no thought to food or drink until the sun began to settle upon the horizon. Approaching a modest farmhouse in the twilight of the evening, Boot decided it was time to acquire the supplies and transportation he needed.

  Five-year-old Margaret Woodcock slipped out of the house and ran to the barn to say good night to the new calf. Margaret’s father had told her it could be her calf, but she would have to accept the responsibility for feeding and taking care of it. A week old now, the calf still looked to its mother for nourishment in spite of Margaret’s attempts to feed it from a pail. Her father said it was important to wean the calf from its mother as soon as possible, so Margaret had faithfully accompanied her father at milking time every day. And after he had drawn milk for the family, he left some in the bottom of the pail. It was Margaret’s job to wet her fingers with milk and p
ut them in the calf’s mouth. When the calf began to suck the milk from her fingers, Margaret would gently lower the calf’s head into the bucket where, hopefully, it would learn to drink. Since the new calf was reluctant to learn, Margaret had decided to name it Pokey.

  Only mildly surprised to find the barn door slightly open, Margaret stepped inside the dark interior and paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. It was a small barn with only four stalls, and Pokey was in the first stall, with her mama. Margaret went directly to the stall, oblivious to the dark shadow by the rear wall, where her father’s mule was kept.

  “Pokey,” Margaret scolded, “if you don’t start drinking out of that bucket in the morning, I don’t know what—” Her words were cut off by a huge hand that clamped down over her mouth so tightly that her teeth brought blood to the inside of her lips. Swept off her feet and carried roughly to the rear of the barn, Margaret tried in vain to scream.

  Terrified, she tried with all her might to struggle out of the grasp of her abductor, but soon found it was impossible. In a few minutes’ time, she exhausted herself. Once she stopped struggling, she felt the hot breath of her assailant close to her ear. “If you make one little squeak, I’ll choke the life outta you,” Boot threatened. “You understand?” She nodded fearfully, her eyes wide with terror, the stale stench of sweat filling her nostrils.

  With one hand firmly in place around the child’s neck, Boot slowly removed the other from her mouth. “Now,” he said, “if you behave yourself and tell me what I wanna know, maybe I won’t kill you.” She made no response beyond an expression of total terror. “Who’s in the house?” he asked. “Your mama and daddy? Anybody else?” She answered with a nod and a shake of her head. He thought it over for a moment. His initial plan had been to simply steal the mule, and maybe take a couple of the hens nesting in the barn for his supper. But now he had to do something about the little girl who had stumbled in at the wrong time. He could simply tie and gag her and be on his way, but as he thought about it, a better idea appealed to him. The little farm was isolated enough. Who would know what happened here? With a grim nod to himself, he smiled at Margaret and slowly tightened the hand around the child’s throat. Unable to cry out, she flailed her arms and legs frantically until her windpipe was crushed and she became still. Boot took no particular satisfaction in the taking of a human life. It was merely a matter of convenience, the elimination of a possible minor irritation. In fact, the child was his first murder, and it meant little more to him than the killing of a sickly puppy. Dropping the limp body in the hay, Boot picked up a pitchfork and started for the house.

  Constance Woodcock turned to glance at the door when she heard it open. About to remind Margaret that it was past her bedtime, she gasped instead, stunned by the appearance of the dark, ominous stranger who burst into the room. Hearing her gasp, Robert Woodcock, who was seated at the table, sprang to his feet and rushed to his wife’s defense. The half-breed, in cold, unhurried response, shoved Constance aside and met her charging husband head-on. Caught by an upward thrust of the pitchfork, Robert uttered a sickening gasp as the tines pierced his abdomen. Holding the handle like a battering ram, Boot drove the hapless farmer across the room and into the opposite wall. The force of his thrust drove the tines of the pitchfork through Robert’s slim body and pinned him to the wall.

  Distracted for an instant, Boot turned in time to see the woman scramble up from the floor, horrified by the sight of her husband writhing in agony. She glanced at the fireplace and the double-barreled shotgun propped beside it. Boot followed the direction of her gaze and took a step toward the fireplace. Abandoning thoughts of reaching it in time, Constance bolted through the open doorway, running for her life. Boot grabbed the shotgun, broke the breech to make sure it was loaded, then charged out the door after her. In her fright, Constance could not generate rational thought. Her only reaction was to run. Had she chosen to find a place to hide instead, she might have had a chance, but in her panic she simply ran down the path toward the road. Even in the darkness, she was an easy target. Boot ran after her for a few yards before stopping to take careful aim. At that distance, the shotgun blast knocked her down, but, much to Boot’s surprise, she almost immediately tried to struggle to her feet. Disgusted, it occurred to him then that Robert Woodcock’s shotgun was loaded with bird shot.

  Walking unhurriedly down the path then, Boot kicked Constance over on her back and set upon her with both hands around her neck. When she at last ceased to struggle, he dragged her body out of the path so that it could not be seen from the road. Returning to the house, he stood before the dying man pinned so grotesquely to the wall and coldly considered Robert’s pitiful suffering. Irritated by the sniveling whining, Boot placed the muzzle of the shotgun inches from Robert’s face and pulled the trigger. With all quiet now, he began to take inventory of his gains.

  With the Woodcock’s home and belongings completely at his disposal, Boot decided there was no need for haste. It was fairly late in the evening by then, and he figured there was little possibility of neighbors coming to call. He gave a thought toward the probability that the farmer might have a hired hand who could conceivably report for work in the morning. Even so, that gave him the entire night to satisfy his needs.

  His first priority was food. He had not eaten a solid meal in ten years, having survived on the gruel prepared by the prison kitchen. In view of this, he decided he would now have a feast. Remembering the calf in the barn, he found a butcher knife in the kitchen, went out to the barn, and slaughtered Margaret’s pet. He roasted it over the fire in the fireplace and stuffed himself with the tender beef, oblivious to the grotesque corpse pinned to the wall. When he was properly filled, he ransacked the house for anything useful. Taking the shotgun and some staples from the kitchen, along with a blanket, he went back to the barn to find a bridle for the mule.

  With still a good two hours before daylight, Boot departed the Woodcock homestead. His new possessions bundled in the blanket and the shotgun in his hand, he gave the mule a kick. After a reluctant response, the mule stepped around the tiny body lying in the hay and started toward the open door. The stoic rider gave no thought to the innocent child.

  It was a long ride on a slow-walking mule to Indian Territory. Neither verbal nor physical abuse proved effective in influencing the reluctant mule to increase its leisurely pace. It was infuriating to Boot Stoner, and though he threatened to stick his shotgun in the stubborn animal’s ear, he had no choice but to put up with it. A slow ride still beat walking to Oklahoma Territory.

  Crossing into Indian Territory south of Fort Smith, on the northern fringe of the Winding Stair Mountains, Boot noted that almost five full days had passed since leaving the bodies of the Woodcock family behind. He made his way past the San Bois Mountains, reaching the Canadian River, where he made camp, at nightfall. The river was fairly wide at that point, but the water was not deep. He elected to wait until daylight to cross over. Though shallow, the river had many holes, as well as some areas of quicksand. It was best to be able to see where he was going. When morning came, he crossed over without mishap and set out on a more northerly course. The next river to cross would be the Arkansas, which would offer a greater challenge to ford.

  Another three days saw him finally reach the Arkansas River. After spending a good portion of the afternoon searching for a way to cross, he decided to swim the mule across. With no desire to take a swim, the mule refused to enter the water until Boot set upon it, using the shotgun as a club. After a brutal assault upon the poor critter’s head that cracked the stock of the gun, the mule gave in. It proved to be an accomplished swimmer. With Boot hanging on to its tail, holding the shotgun up over his head and a half dozen matches in his teeth, the mule made the other side some fifty yards downstream from the point of embarkation.

  Soaked to the bone in the chilly water, Boot staggered ashore behind the mule, cursing and shivering. Scrambling up the bank, he released the mule’s tail, which
proved to be a huge mistake, for the mule kept going. Having had enough of Boot’s abuse, the slovenly animal decided to divorce his new master and, consequently, took off through the trees at a gallop. Enraged, Boot ran after the mule for a couple of dozen yards before stopping to level the shotgun at it. The hind end of a mule is a fair-sized target, especially with a shotgun, and Boot didn’t miss. Unfortunately for him, however, the only shells he had found were loaded with bird shot, and at that distance simply peppered the mule’s behind, causing it to run faster.

  Frustrated to the point of exploding, Boot fired the other barrel at the departing mule. It was out of range by then, and showed no inclination to stop. On foot again, the irate half-breed retraced his steps to pick up the matches he had managed to keep dry, but lost when he opened his mouth to shout blasphemies at the departing mule. At that moment, the matches were more precious to him than the soggy blanket of stolen supplies he had managed to hang on to. Grumbling and shivering, he selected a spot to camp in the hills north of the river where there was plenty of wood for a fire. The next day, with his things dried, he set out on the last short leg of his journey. With the Boston Mountains on his right, he walked north up the valley toward Wendell Stoner’s trading post on the Grand River.

  Wendell Stoner had built his trading post on the bank of the Grand, or the Neosho, as some called it. The trading post consisted of a store for his trade goods and a cabin attached to it for his living quarters. With treeless prairie for hundreds of yards both north and south of his store, Wendell could see his customers approaching from a great distance. On this spring afternoon, a lone stranger on foot was sighted by Wendell’s wife, Morning Light. She called to her husband. Wendell came to the door and peered out across the open grassland. He made no comment, his eyes riveted to the approaching figure. Then he turned to look at his wife for a long moment. Her eyes reflected the dread concern that he had instantly felt. Turning his gaze back toward their visitor, he knew even at that distance there was no mistaking the slight slouch in the man’s walk, as if constantly stalking something or someone. It was Boot. He was sure of it, and a feeling of trepidation, absent for these past twelve years, now returned with renewed angst. Carrying a bundle in one hand, and with what appeared to be a shotgun propped on his shoulder, the prodigal son had returned. Looking up then, Boot discovered his mother and father watching him. Just as they had, he gave no sign of greeting as he neared the little store.