The Eye of the Eagle

Howdy, folks. My name is Ben Carpenter. My old man runs a small spread call the Circle K ranch here in Eagle Pass in New Mexico Territory.
You probably wonder what all this has to do with the story that I am about to tell you. Well, it has a lot to do with it. You see, though my father taught me everything about roping and riding, he never taught me how to shoot. He believed that…well, that if I didn’t know how to shoot I would not become a gunslinger. That same was true for most of my friends. You see, most of our food was domestic beef, chicken, and salt pork. You’ll see how important this is later on.

Well, I’d better get on with the story. It all began about twenty years ago when I was twelve years old. Back then Pa only owned the local stables.
It was a bright June day when Sheriff Jackie Ross rode into town. When people took one look at him they turned their back on him, every man one and all. The problem was that though he was tall, handsome, and lean; his skin color was not to their liking. For you see, Sheriff Ross was black.
He rode his small brown and white striped mustang to the jail, which faced the main street and was situated between and dwarfed by two saloons. Once there, he unloaded his supplies and made himself at home.

That night at dinner Pa made a big row about having a Negro for a sheriff.
“What do those stupid politicians know sending us a black man for a sheriff,” said he. “The rumor is that lots of other people feel the same. Tom Brenner, the blacksmith, is getting signatures for a petition to send to the governor to recall the sheriff.” Pa was a tall, clean shaven man with strong muscles hardened by years of ranching in his youth. He had strong feeling towards many things, including Negroes.
“How is the sheriff taking this conspiracy against him?” asked Ma. She was the only one who dared argue with him when he was angry.
“He doesn’t seem to care,” laughed Pa. “He acts as though this has happened to him before. And it probably has, it probably has.” Pa then lapsed into great laughter at that ironic thought.
You must remember that this was a time of discrimination, a time that has long past us, thank God.

After dinner and chores, I ran over to our barn. It was here that I and several of my friends met every night. We made a club out of it. I was the president of the club for the week, Dick Hollister was vice president, John and Bob Edge and Dave Parker were members.
As was our custom, we met in a corner of the barn where Dick and I used several crates with a board on top for a desk. The other boys sat on crates arranged in front of the “desk”. Once everyone was seated, I rapped a hammer on the board for attention.
“What do you think of the new sheriff?” I asked.
“Well,” started Dave, the oldest and smartest of our club, “there is a saying that you can’t judge a book by its cover. I think that goes for people too.”
“You mean that if a man is dressed like a rich man, he might be just a poor man,” demanded John.
“That’s not exactly a good example,” replied Dave. “Take a look at old Mister Pond for example.” Mr. Pond was an old man who was feared by the children of the town because of his angry face, until one day he pulled a child out from under the wheels of a runway wagon.
“I agree with Dave,” I said. “I suggest we give the sheriff a chance, but,” I continued in a conspiratorial manner, “we’ll keep an eye on him.”
We all agreed and after discussing other things we broke up for the night.

We were as good as our promise. Each day we took turns watching, so that all the time there was at least two boys watching him. During the week nothing extraordinary happened except the usual town drunks and fights when the cowpokes came to town.
The exception was Sunday. After lunch, Sheriff Ross saddled his horse and headed out of town. Since it was Sunday all of us were watching. The sheriff was only walking his horse so we followed him on foot. We figured that since he didn’t have his bedroll and there was a “Gone Hunting” sign on the door of the jail. He was not leaving town.
The sheriff traveled for several miles until he came to the woods. From there he moved farther in. It looked as though he really was going to go hunting. As quiet as Indians we followed him until he stopped in a large clearing. Here he got off his horse and tethered him to a tree. Then, opening his saddlebags, he removed five blocks of wood with strings attached. He tied these blocks to a low hanging branch on the far side of the clearing. Next, he returned to where his horse was and whirled to face the targets he had erected.
Suddenly, with lighting speed, he whipped out his revolver and emptied his gun into the targets. Each target bucked and jumped as a bullet tore into it. All five of us looked at each other in surprise. Then, as he shifted his weight, Bob broke a twig that rested under his foot.
Sheriff Ross pivoted on his heels when he heard the sound. He had only had time to load three of the chambers, but he snapped it shut and held it at his waist, cocked and ready.
“Who’s there? Come on out,” he ordered.
I shrugged my shoulders and walked out into the clearing, followed by the others. Once he saw us the sheriff, slowly let the hammer down on his revolver. He returned to reloading his piece.
“So what is it that you boys want?” he asked nice enough. “Did you come to report to the townspeople of my actions?”
“No, sir,” I said. “We’re a club and like to come into the woods.”
The sheriff nodded and smiled as though he saw right through my story.
After a moments of silence, he said, “Do, you boys, know how to shoot?”
“No, sir,” I replied glad to change the subject.
“Call me Jack, not ‘sir’. How come you don’t know how to shoot?”
“Well, Jack, our fathers never taught us. My father believes that if I don’t know how to shoot, I won’t become a gunfighter.”
Sheriff Ross silently chuckled to himself. “I don’t believe that,” he said. “I’ve been a sheriff in many different towns for going on ten years and never once was I in a showdown. My Daddy taught me to shoot when I was strong enough to hold a gun. And since then, I have only killed two men and both times it was in the line of duty. Technically, I’m not a gunslinger, I’m a peace officer.”
He stood there for several minutes, thinking. When looked back at us the smile had returned. “So, you guys, want to learn how to shoot?”

That afternoon the sheriff taught us all the basics of shooting. He started us off with a rifle and let each of us take turns using it. By five o’clock, the lesson was over. We agreed to return every Sunday for another lesson.
Before we split up, Sheriff Ross said, “Remember, don’t tell you parents, they might not understand. Let’s wait until you have a chance to show how good you are. Oh, and one last thing. Does your club have a name?”
“No, we just formed a club,” said Dick.”
“Well, every club needs a name. How does Eagle Scouts sound?”
The five of us exchanged glances and nodded.
“Good,” smiled the sheriff. “See you later, Eagle Scouts.” With that he stepped in the stirrup and threw his leg over the saddle, and after tipping his hat to us, he turned his horse and headed for town

The practice sessions continued for about another month, during which time none of the club breathed a word of it, especially to our parents. By this time, all of us had become experts with the sheriff’s rifle, even to being able to shoot from different positions.

On July 3rd as John, Bob, and I lounged in front of Eagle Pass General Store, two wagons from the Blue Arrow mine showed up and pulled around to the front of the Western Bank. As the two men who drove the wagons and two of the bank clerks unloaded the contents of the wagons, the owner of the mine, Mr. Kane, made a beeline for the Sheriff’s office.

Later that night, Pa told us that the Blue Arrow Mine had struck a rich vein and Mr. Kane wanted to ship the gold out as soon as possible. But he had decided to wait until after the holiday and realized that the bank vault was probably the safest place to store it in the meantime. Pa also told us that the bank president, Mr. Ward, and two of his clerks were going to stay at the bank to keep an eye on the gold. There was no mention of what precautions the sheriff was taking. Pa had not talked about him for a couple of days and I figured he thought it would be best to ignore the sheriff.
The rest of the dinner conversation was taken up with plans for the huge town picnic that was planned for tomorrow to celebrate Independence Day.
Throughout the rest of the meal I could not help but think that someone might try to steal the gold. If a person was desperate enough he would not let three men stand between him and that gold.

The next day, besides being Sunday, was Independence Day. Immediately after church services, everyone returned to their home to get the food they had prepared for the town picnic. By noon everyone from town, except the three people from the bank, had gathered at the Chapel clearing.
It was a huge clearing the size of the interior of a large church I once saw in St. Louis. It sat three miles from town and near a stream. There was even a field nearby where some of the men would play horseshoes or ball.
While the women fixed lunch, we men went to the stream to wash. When I, Pa, and the rest returned; blanket had been spread out and covered with food. I had waited all year for this so I dug in. As a looked for a shady place to sit to enjoy my meal, I saw the sheriff. He wore a light grey, almost silver suit, complete with white hat and black string tie. However, I knew he still had his gun on because his coat bulged where it hung under his coat.
As I passed he whispered, “Get the Eagles and meet me at the usual place.”
Several minutes later, we all were gathered in the clearing that we used regularly as a shooting range.
“Boys, yesterday a stranger came into town,” he said. Today, I did not see him among the crowd, so I’ll bet that right now the bank is being robbed. I think we should get back to town.”
“Why us, sheriff?” asked Dick.
“Because you boys are the only ones who will believe me and you’re the only ones I can trust.”
The five of us exchanges glances and decided to follow the sheriff.

Ten minutes later, we were in town. We walked through the back streets until we reached the bank. Once there we looked in the side window and saw six masked men in the bank, robbing it. The men were dressed in identical long white desert coats and white hats and wore red bandanas to hide their faces. The banker and one of his clerks sat in a corner, tied and gagged.
The sheriff motioned us to follow him and we made our way to the back door of the jail through side streets. We had to be careful because the jail was right across the street from the bank.
Once in the back of the jail, the sheriff said, “We need to stop those men. All the tricks I taught you boys will come in handy.” Then he started to pass out Winchester rifles and belts of ammunition.
“We can’t kill anyone,” I objected.
“You don’t need to,” the sheriff replied. I don’t want you boys to shoot the robbers unless you have to, otherwise shoot around them.”
“Alright,” I replied. “What do you want us to do?”
The sheriff smiled and said, “I want each one of you men on the buildings directly across from the bank so you can cover it.” We all returned the smile when he called us men. “I’ll take a place by the side of the bank and draw their fire from there. I’ll give you five minutes to get to your positions. When I want you to open fire, I’ll signal you.” We all nodded and moved out.
Outside, I went to the back of the Pink Lady Saloon and climbed the stairs that led to the roof. Once on the roof, I crawled to the edge that faced the street and placed the Winchester next to me. I took off the belt of bullets and laid it on the roof beside me.

Below on the street, Sheriff Ross was standing at the side of the bank. The robbers were loading their illegal gains onto their horses when he stepped onto the porch of the bank; all six men whirled around in surprise.
Before they could move for their guns, Sheriff Ross said in a quiet, even tone, “I wouldn’t go for my gun if I were you.” His face was has hard set. Every fiber in his body was tense, waiting for robbers to make one false move. “You men are covered by my deputies.”
“You’re bluffing,” said one of the men, the tallest one.
“You free to find out,” replied Sheriff Ross. “Otherwise, I want you to drop your guns and march to the jail.”
“No nigger’s going to tell me what to do,” exploded another of the thieves as he drew his revolver.
Before the man even has his pistol part way out of his holster, the sheriff had drawn his own revolver and fired as he retreated back around the corner of the bank. The man who had tried to draw fell wounded. His comrades dragged him to the opposite corner of the bank and opened fire on the sheriff, who for his part waved to us.
At that moment, I was ready. I jerked down the lever on the rifle, loading and cocking the rifle. I aimed at the wall above the heads of the thieves and pulled the trigger. The criminals ducked down in surprise when the round hit and tried to return fire. That was impossible because of our sniper positions.
I was excited. It was my first gun battle. All those hours of training and practice had paid off. As I fought the recoil, I again yanked on the lever and fired again.
When one of the men tried to fire at us on the roofs, the sheriff winged him. After that I think it became apparent to the other men that if they stayed they would be shot. So, they took their chances.
They came out firing and leapt onto their horses and tried to make a break for it. Sheriff Ross bolted from the protection of the bank and jumped onto another of the getaway horse and tore after the thieves, gun blasting.
By the time the five of us made our way to the street, we saw the rest of it. When the shooting started in town, the people at the picnic remembered the gold in the bank and grabbed horses to return. The fleeing thieves had run smack dab into a band of citizens returning hurriedly from the picnic with guns drawn. The thieves had reined up and surrendered, returned to town peaceably.
Once the criminals were in prison, Sheriff Ross recounted the story to the townspeople, all of whom had returned. Everyone had mixed feelings. It turned out that one of the clerks had told some friends about the gold and the picnic and had helped in the robbery. The banker and the mine owner were grateful to us for saving the gold. Our parents, especially our mothers, were appalled. My father was angry that I had learned to shoot, but he changed his mind when the banker and the mine owner offered us monetary rewards. That really helped to change Pa’s mind. Everyone was impressed with the sheriff, even though he was black. Not another word was heard about the petition to the governor.

Life returned to normal pretty much. Pa put the reward money together with some money he had saved up and bought the Circle K Ranch. Jackie Ross remained the sheriff and we remained deputies. We had many adventures together.

This story has a moral. Just like you can’t judge a book by its cover, you can’t judge a man by his skin color. It makes no difference if a person is white, black, red, or yellow they are all Americans.
Today, I am Sheriff Ben Carpenter. The things that I learned from that encounter stayed with me for the rest of my life. I’ve been a sheriff for twenty years and I’ve only killed three men in self-defense, in the line of duty. It’s the person that kills, not the gun. Remember that.