Chapter VI 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.{66}   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.{67}   “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{68} 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{69} 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?{70}”   “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{71} 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{72} 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{73} 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{74} 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.