ANKANAMP
It was a gloomy night. The sun had gone down in a bank of black clouds.
The lightning was playing above the western hills, and the thunder was
beginning to grumble. The lightning flashed more sharply; a wind swept
across the valley; the rain began to patter, then to pour; the lightning
leaped flash upon flash out of the inky sky, while closely following
every stroke came the cracking, booming thunder. The storm was on in all
its fury, driving through the swaying trees and drenching the group of
silent wigwams that stood ghost-like within the edge of an aspen grove
at the foot of the eastern mountains.
Every dusky head was sheltered beneath the smoky canvas. No sign of life
was about except the shaggy and dejected herd of squaw ponies which
stood with backs hunched up and dripping tails turned toward the driving
rain. Most of the Indians had rolled themselves in their blankets and
were sound asleep despite the roaring storm.
But within a certain wigwam there was unrest. Had one raised the
rain-soaked door-flap, one might have seen in the dull glow of the dying
coals, several dusky forms squatted about the fire, while another,
rolled in a blanket, lay near.
This one seemed to be in distress, for he tossed about from time to
time. Once as the light blazed a little he threw himself with face
toward the fire, which lit up his features and showed him to be not an
Indian, but a white man. He mumbled something, and a squaw who was
watching the sick man closely stepped to his side and gave him a drink
of water. Then he rose to a sitting posture and began to rub his leg.
“Too tight, heap hurt,” he half groaned.
“Better soon,” his dusky nurse said comfortingly, while she loosened the
bandages to ease his sorely wounded foot, saying as she did so, “Lie
down, heap sleep, soon well.”
The patient heeded only part of the advice; he threw himself back into
his blanket muttering, “Ugh, heap hurt!” then grinding his teeth
savagely, he added, half to himself, “I’ll fix the devils that put me in
this fix.”
“Maybe so killum white man, huh?” grunted one of the bucks sitting near.
“Shoot ’em like dogs,” was the bitter reply.
“Injun heap mad at cow men,” came the suggestive rejoinder.
The sufferer, as will be easily guessed, was Bud Nixon. Luck had flung
him among the Indians shortly after his precipitate departure from
Morgan’s dance. A kind of stupid, stubborn pride had kept him from
turning to any of the ranchers for help, though any one of them would
have given cheerfully the assistance his distress called for. Rather
than ask it, however, he wandered on aimlessly trying to show his grit,
until, overcome by loss of blood, he swooned and fell from his horse.
How long he lay in this faint he did not know. Luckily for him, two
Indian hunters, following the mountain trail he had taken, found him
stretched out, pale and bleeding, while his trusty horse cropped at the
grass a few rods away. These dusky good Samaritans soon revived the
wounded man and took him back to camp, where they left him in charge of
old Towano, their medicine man, whose power to heal the sick was held in
superstitious awe by the tribe, though the modern physicians would no
doubt scoff at such clumsy attempts at healing as he used.
It proved good fortune, however, for Bud that he was given help of any
kind soon. His neglect of his wound had already brought on a fever, and
blood poison was threatening. The medicine man did his best with
incantations to drive the disease away. It is doubtful, however, that
his rattling, juggling tricks helped much. The faithful nursing of the
white patient’s foot by Towano’s old squaw was no doubt the help that
put him, after a few days, on the way to recovery. But these were bitter
days for Bud at best. To suffer such indignity at the hands of his
friends, to be shot and kicked out into the night, and finally to be
forced to lie like a beggar among Redskins, taking their nauseating
doses, their coarse food, the dirt and discomfort of their wickiups, in
storm and shine,--all this rankled in his soul as he lay convalescing,
and filled his heart with hate and a stubborn resolve to get revenge.
In this state of wrath, Bud’s slow brain was rather quickened to see and
seize upon the suggestion of co-operative enmity that the Indians
occasionally threw out. They were already full of anger towards the
warden and the ranchers. The persistent encroachment of the cattlemen on
their hunting grounds, and their threats to enforce irritating game laws
had put the Indians in an ugly mood. It would have taken but little to
precipitate open warfare with all the horrors of massacre and plunder.
Bud was in a state of mind, however, not to reck at consequences. His
brain was too unimaginative to picture ahead. He lived only an
animal-like existence from day to day. It was an opportunity he saw to
pay up his enemies with brutal interest. The idea gradually possessed
him; but for the present he said nothing, lying low and nursing his hate
by recalling the pictures of Alta Morgan’s refusal, of Dick Davis’s
triumph, and the derisive contempt of the whole crowd.
One afternoon as the white patient was lying under the trees near the
tepee the Indians had built for him, several young bucks came over to
talk with him. They were evidently in a fever of subdued excitement.
About an hour before, they had dashed into camp and Nixon heard them
talking rather loudly with wild gesticulations, to their old chief; but
he could only make out something about game men. They did not offer any
explanation now, being still a little afraid to trust the white man who
had fallen in with them.
“What’s up?” asked Nixon; “game warden been after you?”
“That’s it,” responded Flying Arrow, a young chieftain; “heap chase
Injuns this morning, but no ketch ’em.”
“Oh, he’s no good; he needs killin’.”
“You think so,” the Indian responded; “you no like him.”
“Naw, he’s a squaw killer. Why didn’t you shoot him?”
“Injun no want trouble; white man better let Injun alone”; the chief’s
tone was threatening.
“White man has no business stopping you from killing all the deer you
want. I’d put a bullet through him if he tried to stop me. What did he
do to you?”
“Heap chase ’em Injuns--that’s all. No ketch ’em. Bucks dodge. Some go
this way through trees, some that”;--the chief made his story very vivid
by expressive gesticulations. “Drop deer in creek. Run up creek, no
tracks, long way round to wickiups. No see ’em game man any more. Maybe
so lose him in trees.”
“Well, he’ll be sneakin’ round again, don’t worry. He wants to play heap
smart, put Injun in jail, get heap money. You’d better kill the devil.
If you don’t, he’ll get you.”
The Indians, usually reticent, grew more and more talkative as they
found in their white companion one who held bitter grievances against
their enemies. Especially was this the case with the hot-blooded ones of
the band. For there are Indians and Indians, some always keen for
trouble, others peaceful and law-abiding by nature. But all of the tribe
were more or less restive at this time.
Bud’s first plans to get even with those against whom his grudge was
fiercest contemplated no bloodshed. His main thought was to annoy and
harass his foes in some ugly way without risk to himself. The scheme of
doing it gradually took shape in his brain. He had been the chief bully
of the valley, why not be chief of a band of Indians? It would be an
easy trick to lead such a band into all sorts of mischief. Knowing every
foot of the ground and all of the people concerned, he could readily
raid the ranches, steal cattle and horses, set fire to their stacks, or
cut up other kinds of deviltry to torment those on whom he would glut
his revenge.
The chance to promote his plot was not hard to find. Let one but strike
with energy to realize a strong desire for good or ill, it is surprising
how the force draws like a magnet and magnetizes like metal all about
it.
The days that Bud lay convalescing he used to the advantage of his plan.
By card playing and gambling with the young bucks, he soon established
a close fellowship. They naturally took to his leadership, and he had
soon so gained their confidence that he felt safe to suggest his plan to
Flying Arrow, one of the leading young Indians, straight as an arrow and
as light and swift, with keen but not unkindly eyes. The plot found
favor with this daring brave rather because it was electric with
possibilities, than because of any deep-seated grudge he bore the
whites. Through this young chief it was spread to several others of like
spirit. They took to it also with avidity, and before Old Copperhead was
aware of it, there was formed within his band a kind of secret coalition
of dare-devils, bent upon excitement and incidentally revenge toward the
whites.
It is doubtful whether the old chief would have permitted such a thing
had he known in time to nip it in the bud. He was wise enough to foresee
some of its consequences. When he did get a hint of what was doing, it
had gone rather too far to check easily; besides, his own hate of the
whites made his objections to the scheme only half-hearted. He,
therefore, chose the politic way of dealing with the matter by letting
things take their course, allowing the band to leave on their pretended
hunting expeditions whenever they chose, and asking no questions about
the kind of meat they brought back, a goodly share of which was always
left at his wickiup. Nor did he count his ponies often to take stock of
the increase in the herd. Secretly the old chief was rather gloating
because of the advantage he was getting over his enemies.
The cattlemen did not miss any stock at first; for the thieving band
worked very slyly; and it was not the time for rounding up the cattle
and horses. Besides, the Indians had a leader who knew well the ground
and the game.
Emboldened by success, the marauders grew in numbers and in daring. Bud
Nixon was soon glorying in a command big enough to be dangerous, and
feeding his stupid soul the while with anticipation of richer revenge.
“Ankanamp,” or Red Foot, was the Indian name given to the White Chief.
Even Old Copperhead was beginning to admire his new ally, and planning
to make him a real Injun by bringing about a marriage with one of the
Indian maidens.
He little knew what Bud’s brain had plotted along that line. No less a
mate than the belle of the valley would suit him. Let her once fall
into his power he would bring the proud minx to terms. To that end, he
had a scheme of his own that he never divulged to any of his followers.
It was to be the culmination of all his desires and his deviltry. How
his plot worked out we shall learn later.