Squaws Along The Lochsa: The Adventures of Hawkeye Starbuck

By Patrick Landon

Meet Hawkeye Starbuck, a stubborn, easygoing rodeo cowboy with a heart of gold. When he learns that his friend Big Sade and her band of strumpets have fled Pistol Springs in terror, he quickly recruits his old friend, the Harpie, to roar after them deep in the dark woods of the Lochsa country. They are on unfriendly ground, but Hawkeye is determined to set things right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886547962

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Squaws Along The Lochsa

The Adventures of Hawkeye Starbuck

Patrick Landon

Copyright © 2022 Patrick Landon

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 979-8-88654-795-5 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-796-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

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

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Author

Chapter 1

Hawkeye Starbuck rose up in his saddle and surveyed Pistol Springs. The shadowy outskirts were deserted and showed no signs of life. Low, rambling shacks were clustered together at the town's edge. They had been reserved for the less prominent citizens of the obscure prairie town, unkept, unpainted, and beaten the color of old bones in the raw Basin wind. Beyond, the main street stretched its bed across the sand and disappeared into the suffocating darkness of the blowing dust. He could not make out the far end of the street.

No one was out on the street. No one moved. Not even a couple of old boys had stopped to swap lies on the steps of the store. Eerie, the way the town was empty as a cup. It made the hairs on the back of the cowboy's neck tingle.

The wind hissed over the boardwalk, rattling, pawing, endlessly banging at the windows and doors. It made the only sound. No dogs barked. No children squealed. No voices. No piano tunes pumping out of the saloon. No activity at all. Nothing. The town had lost its life. There was only the relentless wind.

Hawkeye blinked and held his breath, fighting down an uneasiness in his chest and a fleeting impulse to yank his mare around and gallop back into the prairie's openness.

Then he remembered he had been summoned here by a friend's call for help, a desperate call that had nagged at him as he rode hard for three days to get to Pistol Springs. Now this. His fingers curled to tighten their grip on the reins.

Well, he said to himself, fools rush in, they say.

The mare slowly eased forward. He knew she had caught the smell of water in town. After two dry days between waterholes, he knew her thirst would overcome her spookiness. Still, he held her tightly in check as they began a wary entrance into Pistol Springs.

The cowboy rode high in the saddle as if he expected something, but to his left, the buildings were empty and lifeless. He peered into the darkness that forced him to squint and saw nothing but black. Then a glance to the right caught the sunlit side of the street and the glint of the sun off a broken windowpane but nothing more. Quickly, he jerked the mare into the shadows, up next to the boardwalk, and she stopped short. Again, he peered into the darkness of a door left open, half expecting someone to step forward and quietly push it. A tumbleweed bounced past them, up the steps, and hung up in the doorway.

Sagging back into the saddle, Hawkeye reached up and stroked the mare's heavy neck. He had been here, to Pistol Springs, a hundred times before. He had taken all things for granted—the movement of people, children throwing sticks in the street, the smell of baking bread. Across the street, tattered curtains waved through an open window beside the open restaurant door. Faded banners fluttered, hopelessly feeble without the come and go even Pistol Springs had to offer.

It's a durned ghost town, Hawkeye said in a low voice. Not a cussed soul left in town.

Butterflies formed up in his stomach, and his throat suddenly went dry. He sighed heavily, a practiced sigh followed by a slow count, to clear his head. Then he pushed the fingers of his free hand back through his curly blond hair and let the mare move forward again.

Well, don't this beat the Dutch, he said aloud, as the mare's hooves clopped along the boardwalk, and he gazed at more empty storefronts.

A lawyer's sign, knocked from one hook, twisted and spun in the wind. Blowing papers swept through the street. Deep within a parlor behind a locked door, a clock struck the hour, but only Hawkeye was there to hear.

Cautiously, he guided the mare to the trough in front of Big Sade's Saloon. It was nearly three quarters empty, and a dusty scum floated along the surface. The thirsty mare hardly noticed as she thrust her head in. Hawkeye did. Nobody had bothered to fill that trough in a long time.

A sudden gust of wind bristled the hair on the back of Hawkeye's neck for a second time and swirled down into his shirt, sending an unwelcome chill through him.

He sat squarely in front of Big Sade's saloon, an obvious presence in a town without any other presence at all. Hesitant, he could not bring himself to dismount or to stray from the safety he found in the mare.

This was, after all, what he had come for. While he should be slapping off the dust and fetching himself a cool drink, he hugged the saddle and blinked at the cheerless saloon. His eyes concentrated on the horseshoe someone had nailed above the doors, upside down. So all the luck had run out.

For the second time, he said to himself, Well, don't this beat the Dutch.

Big Sade had sent him a cryptic message, begging him to drop everything and get to Pistol Springs right away. Plaintive and mysterious, it said no more. There was no explanation—nothing.

Please, Hawkeye, come right away, the note had said. I need you. That was it. Big Sade had signed it and sent it by a rider.

He had told himself that things sometimes had a way of sorting themselves out, sometimes things became magnified in the rush of a moment, and later were what people laughed about. He had repeated that to himself as he sped headlong toward Pistol Springs. Yet, in the back of his mind, he knew this was no fool's errand. Big Sade was a rock. He had never seen her buckle under pressure. Even such a thing as a note scribbled in a hurry was way out of character for her. She did things in her own sweet time. That was why the note rattled him. She was counting on him to be the rock.

The hot wind whipped at his shirt. Odd how it chilled him.

Hawkeye, glancing away from the saloon door, shrugged with a tilt of his head.

This is why you came, ol' son, he said to himself.

Still, he did not move. He wanted to call out to Big Sade from his saddle. After all, this was her saloon. A tiny voice inside him, however, threw up a warning, and the words caught in his throat.

Big Sade had saved his skin more than once. Whenever he rolled into her place and worked himself into not seeing straight, she walked him upstairs, tucked him in, and somehow stashed his bankroll. She had always taken care of him.

She—what the dickens was that? His thoughts broke off, and his senses kicked in, the timeless instincts of a Basin tracker. He sensed eyes on him, not curious eyes, only watching. He had no idea how many or where they were or why they were watching, but he felt them. He knew they were there.

Well, he breathed lowly, this is it then.

Before he could give himself time for second thoughts, Hawkeye vaulted to the ground. Then he kicked his spurs together with a loud jingle, for the benefit of those watching, slowly brushed the dust from his sleeves, and tugged at his jeans. Still feeling those eyes, he adopted his famous rodeo swagger and strode boldly toward the stairs, the soft thud of his footsteps the only sound. Abruptly in front of the steps, he stopped, squared up his shoulders, and tucked in his shirt. The mare raised her head from the trough and gazed blankly at him. He swung around slowly, in an arc, taking in the desolate street again. Then he swept his hat from his head in a flourish and beat the dust from his thighs. Committed, he squared up his shoulders again and headed up the steps, the hollow sound of his spurs on the board porch echoing loudly down the street. If any eyes had not been watching him before, they were then.

Pushing back the saloon door, Hawkeye cursed under his breath as the hinges screeched. He stepped quickly into the dark bar. The far wall was hidden in shadows, but that was not unusual. Hawkeye was used to that. Even when there was a doin's going on, when the piano played, voices laughed, and glasses clinked, there were dark spots in the bar. It was nothing like this, though, and an unwholesome feeling crept up the cowboy's neck. The corners seemed darker, foreboding, as derelict as the place was, and as still.

Sade? he called tentatively.

He had not expected an answer. Whoever was there, if anybody was there, must have known of his presence, but no answer came.

Hawkeye slipped swiftly to his side and backed against the wall. Keeping the windows to his right and the door to the left, he listened only to his own shallow breathing.

As his eyes became adjusted to the light, he let out a low whistle. Durn! he said. The bar had been turned upside down, ravaged. Tables had been overturned, chairs knocked about, glass broken and strewn across the floor, mugs upended, and only a dark stain to show what might have been in them. It looked to Hawkeye as if the place had emptied in a hurry. Then the wind had deposited a fine coat of dust over everything. Cobwebs above the mirror and on the chandeliers meant that nobody had bothered to come back.

Golly. Hawkeye gulped and swallowed hard.

Big Sade was a stickler for cleanliness. She would sooner take a whipping than let things go to grime. A quick smile flashed across his face. Big Sade would be having kittens over this. Her face would puff up, her eyes would bulge out, and a string of profanities would start, not to let up until the place was spotless.

Durn! he said again. What was keeping Big Sade from checking back?

Realizing that he had been stalling and that it was getting him nowhere, the cowboy eased his way to the bar. He had changed his mind, aiming for quiet now, hoping to get into town, figure out what had happened to Big Sade. He would see what kind of help she needed, then get out of town with as little ruckus as possible. He put one hand on the bar rail, noticing that no one else had been there in a while, and furtively, he scanned the mezzanine. Ghostly columns and shadowy beams were all he could make out, but he imagined he could almost see the fresh paint on the replaced woodwork where he had sent a bounty hunter through the railing and onto the saloon floor.

He sidled along the bar, careful to keep one hand on the rail, as he steadily swung his eyes around him. Then feeling like a child stealing from a pie rack, he peeked gingerly behind the bar.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a movement on the porch. He whirled around, but the doorway was empty. The porch was empty also. With a nervous laugh, Hawkeye scratched the side of his neck.

Getting a little jumpy, ain't ya, ol' son, he mumbled to himself. Just your mind messing with ya.

The distraction had almost made him miss it, but, experienced tracker that he was, Hawkeye always gave everything a second look. It was then that he saw the fresh prints in the dust on the floor behind the bar. Dropping quickly to his haunches, he squatted above the prints.

Well, I'll be, he said with a low whistle. Someone had been here before him. He stuck his head up and breathed in deeply, trying to catch a scent of something. It was faint, but it was there. Was the other guy still here? That would account for the spooky feeling of being watched that had nagged at him. The cowboy's hand hovered above the prints, but he did not notice until his fingers began to tingle. When he dropped to the floor, several minutes had been lost. He was not thinking clearly. He could not think at all. Half-formed questions wrenched his head, and he cursed himself for a sudden giddy sensation in his stomach. Everything was turned upside down, and it had frozen him in place. A cold sweat broke down his back, and he jumped to his feet.

In the dim light, still, there was no sound, but it seemed as if it had become quieter. Charge forward or fall back? Uncertain, Hawkeye tiptoed to the staircase. Against his better judgment, he figured he ought to check out the rooms upstairs. He just hoped there were no bodies. Hesitantly, he reached for the banister and stepped on the first stair. It screamed under his weight, and Hawkeye bounced back as if he had been stung. He keeled and smashed into the faro table and crashed it to the floor with him. He lay there, staring at the cupids on the ceiling, stock still for a moment, doing his best to hold his breath, not to make a sound, but knowing that he must have been heard all over town.

Well, that ought to bring the cavalry, a voice behind him unexpectedly said.

In one motion, Hawkeye flipped to his belly and scrambled to his feet. His old friend, the Harpie, stood in the doorway. Relief rippled through him, and the cowboy slumped into a chair.

Jumping Jehosephat, old woman, you liked to scare the peewaddin's out of me.

Jehosephat ain't the one who's jumpin', she said with a crooked grin. You are.

She shambled toward him, not looking one bit different from the last time he had seen her. She was as wrinkled and wizened, but no more so. Rags hung around her waist, and a dirty black hat, stained with sweat and grime, was perched atop her greasy hair. Her chin jutted out, and she had no teeth, giving her face a caved-in look. Tobacco juice streaked in thin lines from the corners of her mouth. She was as ugly as a mud fence, but Hawkeye was sorely glad to see her.

You sure took your time gettin' here, he said, half-pouting, and how come you had to come in here sneakin' up on me? This place is spooky enough without that.

The old woman wrinkled up her face. This place ain't spooky at all. You're the one who's spooky. Why, I've known mustangs out in the Basin, never been bridled, that're not half as skitty as you. She spat in the corner. And besides, don't go accusin' me of sneakin' up on nobody. You know I ain't got a sneaky bone in my body. She cackled and slapped her side. If you used the eyes you was born with, you'd have seen me when you walked in. You strolled right past me.

Yeah? the cowboy frowned at her. Where?

She grinned and looked innocent. Why, right out there on the porch.

Bull.

Well, don't that shiver your timbers. The old woman spat again. On the one hand, the little popinjay exclaims he's glad to see me, and on the other, he's makin' me out to be a liar.

The cowboy squinted at her for a moment. Who said anything about bein' glad to see you?

You did.

I never.

Well, you must've been. Otherwise, why'd you send for me?

Hawkeye shrugged. Big Sade sent me a note. It was kinda strange. It sounded like she might be in some kind of jackpot. He glanced around quickly and threw up his arms. Boy and how.

So you clamped on your shining white armor and headed to the rescue.

Grinning, the cowboy nodded his head. Sure, he said.

The old woman groped inside her dress and pulled out a plug of tobacco. She bit off a huge chunk.

A big, fat barkeep ain't nobody's idea of a damsel in distress, you dumb goat roper.

Hawkeye yipped and pointed a finger into the old woman's face. Aw, easy now, you lay off Big Sade. You got no call to be passin' out insults. He gave her the once-over. Ain't none of us perfect. Anyway, Big Sade is A-One in my book.

The Harpie transferred her wad of tobacco to her left cheek. Now that may be, my young greenhorn friend, but somethin' went on here that ain't A-One, and Big Sade's right in the middle of it. Like I always say, if you sleep with dogs, you're gonna get ticks.

Aw, c'mon now, he said with impatience. Besides, I thought that was fleas.

It was the old woman's turn to shrug. She turned the conversation in a different direction. You still ain't told me how I figure into this.

Well, the cowboy said, rubbing his chin, I didn't exactly know what I was in for. So I figured it might be helpful to have an old sorceress along with me, just for good measure.

Illusionist, the old woman corrected him and raised an index finger in the air. So! You are glad to see me! I knew I didn't ride all this way for nothin'.

Hawkeye shot her a sweet smile. I'm always glad to see you, you know that. I can't imagine a time when I wouldn't be glad to see you.

Her eyes twinkled, and she gave him a look like he had just offered her a piece of chocolate cake. I'd say that'd depend on the circumstances.

Well, yeah, Hawkeye said, a brief suspicion forming on his brow, then he beamed, but if I had to take my druthers on a face to see, it'd be yours.

The old woman spat. Now ain't that a bunch of sorghum. She wiped the spittle from her mouth with the back of her hand. Say, all this talkin's dry work. Scoot around the end of the bar there and pop the cap on a couple of cool ones.

Heading down the bar, Hawkeye hollered over his should. What did you have in mind, sarsaparilla?

A shudder quaked in the old woman. You must've taken up comedy since we seen each other last. I can tell you're still practicin'. Gimme a short brew and make it snappy. Let's finish our business and get out of this burned-out town.

The cowboy opened two beers and came back around to the customer side of the bar. It's hot, he said about the beer.

Well, at least it's wet, the Harpie replied.

His eyes glazed over. Two things I really hate, warm beers and ghost towns. Here, I am sittin' in one, drinkin' the other. He took a small sip. Then his eyes narrowed as he said, By the way, you never told me why you were layin' in ambush for me.

The old woman rolled her eyes. I told you, you saddle tramp, I was not layin' in ambush for you. You walked right past me on your way in.

I did not.

Her voice rose three octaves. You'd think that livin' as long as you have, and bein' as smart as you think you are, you'd know the truth when you hear it. She smoothed the back of her hair. I turned myself into a caterpillar and lit up there on the doorjamb smack over the entrance. I told you, you walked right past me when you came in.

Hawkeye shook his head slowly and ambled over to a barstool.

You don't believe me? the Harpie brayed. You don't think I could do it?

Chuckling to himself, Hawkeye said, Oh, I believe you could do it, all right. No doubt about that, you bein' a magician and all. But it's a pretty foolhardy thing to do, don't you think?

How so? she asked belligerently.

Well, he drawled, supposin' somebody come by, reached up, and smashed you flat. That'd be a rough way to go, wind up bein' a string of green slime.

The old woman cackled again. I'll warrant that, she said. Then she wagged a finger at him. But I ain't like you, freshman. I use these peepers to watch the world around me.

Well, if you saw me a-comin', how come you didn't say somethin' before? You'd have saved me a lot of tippytoein'.

Hey, bein' a caterpillar is tough work, 'specially when you ain't used to it. Movin' all them cussed legs, the little feelers. Life's a lot different down there. It wears you out. I got tired and had to take a little nap.

Hawkeye guffawed. Is that so? And how you watchin' the world while you're takin' a nap?

She did not miss a beat. What d'ya think antennae are for?

Okay, okay, Hawkeye said with a challenge in his voice, if you've had your eyes open and your ear to the ground—

I didn't say nothin' about my ears, she interrupted.

He batted his eyelids and ignored her. And your nose to the grindstone, nope, better yet, your nose into everybody else's business like it always is, then you tell me what the dickens is going on in this town.

She spat into her beer bottle. A thick slimy gob oozed its way into the warm beer.

You tell me, and we'll both know. I just got here myself. You're the only other person I've seen since I hit town.

The cowboy turned away from the view of her beer and walked to the window. He sighed heavily. Did you get the feelin' you were bein' watched?

Not lately.

Not since you've been to town?

Nope. She was drinking her beer again.

Hawkeye squinted past the grimy windows, peering into the street. You reckon they all went to a hangin' or somethin'? he asked.

The old woman looked over her shoulder and saw the same thing Hawkeye saw—the deserted street. Naw, I don't. It ain't too likely, not from the remains of what I've seen here. Why, there ain't even a dog in the streets. Dogs don't generally get political enough to care about hangin's.

Yeah, but these folks gotta be around here somewhere. Shoot, there's somebody's wash still out on the line.

The Harpie looked in the direction the cowboy nodded, crooked an eyebrow back at him, and strode to the window, hand on hips.

Don't that wash look peculiar to you? she asked.

He shook his head. I don't follow you.

I mean, she said patiently, that don't look regular to me. Look at them long johns. Them's brown long johns. Ain't nobody wears brown long johns. And even the water in Pistol Springs ain't bad enough to make 'em come out brown. They's brown from the blowin' dust, sport. That wash has been hangin' there a mighty long spell.

Goose bumps ran up the cowboy's arm. No matter what the old woman said otherwise, this place was spooky.

Yeah, he said slowly, somethin' sure knocked this burg for a loop. What d'ya suppose it was? He figured she had an inkling, but for some reason, she was not saying.

Without turning back to face him, the Harpie answered, Why don't you read the note Big Sade left you?

I didn't see no note.

She still did not look at him. It's right there under that bottle of rye, the half-drank one behind the bar. She must've figured the wind would blow it around. So she stuck it there. She knowed you'd find it under an open bottle of whiskey.

Hawkeye hustled around the counter and saw it immediately. It was a plain piece of paper, torn out of a tablet, nothing like a note Big Sade would have left. That would have been on fancy lilac stationery, scented like a special house in Paris, France.

He hesitated before he picked it up. Come to think of it, it was not like Big Sade to leave notes at all. She was not the rendezvousing type. He picked up the whiskey bottle but left the note where it lay. His name was scrawled across the face of it, all right, written in Big Sade's bold hand.

Pick it up already, the Harpie barked and edged up to the counter.

I don't like this, he confessed.

Pick it up. It ain't gonna bite you. It's just a note. What harm can it do?

Seems to me every time anybody ever wrote anythin' to me, it was bearin' bad news, or they were wantin' somethin' outa me, mostly money.

You ain't never gonna give 'em a chance to prove your little theory wrong, neither, if you don't start readin' more notes.

The cowboy backed away from it. Naw, I don't wanna.

The Harpie slapped the counter, Boy, you are the bulldoggedest, hard-headedest, lame-brainedest chunk of mule meat I ever laid eyes on. Pick it up and read it!

Hawkeye shook his head.

You're gonna read it, eventually. You and I both know that, the Harpie fumed. So just read it now and cut out all the fuss. I already read it. I know what it says, and you're gonna want to know too. You ain't no good at puzzles. I'll vouch for that.

The cowboy cocked a bright blue eye at her. You read it?

The Harpie pumped her head.

What's it say?

She slapped the counter again. Read it, I say!

He snatched the note off the counter, gave her a cold fish-eye look, and ripped it open. It was short, to the point, and looked like it had been written in a hurry.

It said,

Hawkeye, if you want to help a friend, like a friend has never needed it before, come help me. Can't explain now. We got to scram out of town. Find us along the Lochsa.

Sade

He sloughed against the counter, then handed the note to the Harpie.

I done read it,