Chapter Ten—The Box Canyon

     Soon after. Soon after what? Well, I didn’t know. I wasn’t paying much attention to the times and seasons at the moment, but it was soon after the last time I checked out of this book a few chapters back. All I know was that it was morning, and I had propped up a chipped mirror on a tree limb and was shaving. Though it was the first part of June now—I guess I did know after all, not that I cared--and the weather was heating up, the streams were still cold because they basically were melted snow runoffs from the mountains above. The sun would help warm them up over time, but they’d remain chilly all summer.
     I was still puttering around the mountains northwest of Whitewater, about 20 miles away. Still telling myself I needed to get out of the area and head north, change my name, and settle down into some anonymous cowhand job for 30 bucks a month and beans. A real incentive to leave, I thought sarcastically. But I simply couldn’t think of anything else to do. There was no way I could find work in the Rogersville-Whitewater-Dry Gulch area, so I was frankly wasting my time staying around there. But…it was home. It had always been home. All my memories—good and bad—were here. And if I left, I’d be leaving Julie behind forever. Right now, I was still close enough…though I hadn’t been back, there was no way I could go back, my heart wouldn’t stand it. I hoped she understood, wherever she was. Well, up in heaven because I had no doubt that’s where she was. And if she could see me, maybe she’d understand the tremendous pain it would cause me to go back to our ranch…and see the grave where I laid her….
     I shook that off. But Julie was still close enough in my life that I couldn’t break away yet, though I knew I should bite the bullet and go. And then there was…her. She’s here, too…Whitewater…I could ride down and see her, sneak into town…nobody would see me…I don’t even have to talk to her, if I could just see her…walking in town…Then I snorted…now, that’s dumb, Conners, you’re off your rocker…it was a nice night, but it was only one night, and she’s put you behind her and gone on with her life…which is exactly what you should do…quit being so weak, you pansy, and get on your horse and head north…that’s what Julie would want you to do, and that’s what Robin would want, too, I’m sure…
     So, I steeled myself, put up all my stuff and tied it to Ol’ Paint’s back and determined I was going to head north that very day. Montana…I’ve always wanted to go Montana…lots of ranches up there, I’m sure I can find work…and nobody will know who I am…got to think of a new name, a good one…how about…God?…no, that wouldn’t do, I think somebody already has that one…William Shakespeare?…no, I don’t like Russian names…Attila the Hun…now THAT would fit…Well, it will take me a few weeks to get up there, I can toss it around in my head on the way…I felt better, a little better, now that my decision was made…go, and don’t look back…
     I mounted Ol’ Paint. “We’re going north, old boy,” I said to him, patting the side of his neck. “Montana. How does that sound to you?” He snorted and rolled his head. I started singing:

     I ride an ol’ paint, leadin’ ol’ Dan,
     Goin’ to Montana for to throw the hoolihan…

     And then I stopped singing. And stopped my horse. I cocked an ear, puzzled. I heard something, faint, but distinctive. Drums. Indian drums. Ceremony or…ouch, let’s hope that’s not war drums…
     But that’s exactly what it sounded like.

     There was still some Indian trouble in spots, but not much. The army had a lot of forts around the west now, most of the tribes had given up the fight and moved onto the reservations, and there were only a few renegade bands that went on a rampage occasionally, killing, raping, burning, and making a nuisance of themselves. They were usually rounded up pretty quickly, but it still happened. A few bands had holed up deep in the mountains, or in some totally obscure spot on the plains to try to maintain the “old ways,” but it was hopeless. Still, as long as they didn’t cause any trouble, the army left them alone. Couldn’t find them anyway, some of those canyons and valleys were almost impossible to get to—only an Indian could do it. I had heard Indian drums earlier in my life on quite a few occasions, but it had been a while. Sometimes they were simply having some kind of religious ceremony, or some rain dance, or something. But sometimes the drums meant they were getting ready to go on the warpath. As noted, it had been a few years since I’d heard any drums, so I was a little rusty in reading the language, but the hair on the nape of my neck was standing up and I had a bad feeling about this. I decided to follow the sound, quietly investigate, and if it looked like a war party, I’d hightail it over to Fort Tyler, which was about 50 miles west, and let the army know. Then it was their problem.
     But more than likely it was just a ceremonial thing, There hadn’t been an overabundance of rain this spring, so some of the grass was getting a little dry. Probably some of the old-timers were getting together for a drunk, a dance, and an orgy. Might be fun to watch. Or join.
     I followed the sound, up some divides, down through trees and dales, and along some pretty craggy paths. I was deep in mountain country now, and as I looked around I didn’t see any flatland anywhere. I was probably a good 7,000 feet above sea level, and the tree line was a little below me, though there were some scattered copses of Ponderosa pine. I did see a few elk and bighorn sheep, but they paid me no mind. No snow at this elevation, but I could see some on the jagged peaks a few miles ahead of me.
     The problem in this kind of terrain is that it’s hard to tell which way sound is coming from. It can bounce around these knolls and tors and sound like a cathedral. But I had the general direction, I thought, just as long as those fellows didn’t get tired of pounding their stretched buffalo hides.
     I was getting closer, I knew that because the sound was getting louder. Wherever they were, they were in the heart of these mountains and I doubted the sound could be heard in the valleys below. If I hadn’t been camping in the midst of all this majestic geography, I doubt I would have heard them. But I did and I was following them and I was getting close.
     Even though I was surrounded by high peaks on all sides, I was slowly descending into a huge valley of rolling, undulating hills, not unlike an ocean in the midst of a fierce storm. I’d look up and see a high “wave,” then top one, and come down into another gorge between them. The trees were getting thicker. And the sound of the drums was getting louder.
     It was mid-afternoon so there was still plenty of light, though in some places the shadows were pretty deep. I stopped once at a stream to let Ol’ Paint have a drink—he was certainly working a lot harder than I was. But the drums kept booming. They were starting to give me a headache. Incessant pounding. There was a rhythm to it, but it was almost a frightening rhythm. It jarred one’s bones and gave a sense of impending melancholy. Or perhaps doom.
     After another mile or so, I could tell the drums were just over the next rise. It was a pretty high one, and long, and it was tree-covered. Rather than force my horse to climb it, I decided to give him a break and hike it. That would make me a little harder to see as well, just in case those fellows down below proved to be opposed to some Kimo Sabe peekin’ in on their dissipation.
     I worked my way up the hill, with the aid of a few tree branches pulling me along. I topped the rise, and saw a small mesa, treeless, maybe 25 yards wide. I crouched down until I came within about 10 feet of the edge of the mesa, where I dropped flat on my belly and snaked the rest of the way. I looked down to where the drums were booming, and my eyes got as big as silver dollars and almost bugged out of my head….

     I remember for sure when it was now.  It was the week after the Whitewater picnic where Robin got her pretty little face slapped for not minding her own business—well, that’s not nice, she came to my defense…anyway, I was on my way, as rapidly as I could push my faithful steed, to Fort Tyler. The U.S. Army needed to know what I knew, and in a hurry.
     What I had seen when I had looked over the edge of that mesa staggered me almost beyond belief. I saw a narrow canyon, perhaps three miles long, and averaging 300 yards wide. On both sides of the canyon were vertical walls of crumbly limestone and granite, nearly 200 feet high. It was a box canyon, which meant there was only one way out, and that was at the near extremity where I lay. I had seen many such canyons before, that wasn’t what shocked me. It was what the gorge housed.
     Hundreds of Indian teepees dotted the floor of the canyon. At least 400, and probably more. And mingling among those teepees, with the drums still booming, were hundreds of Indian braves—warriors; I saw no women, no children, no old men. There must have been nearly 1,000 of them, and as I watched, I spotted another 40 or so riding into the canyon from below me. They were greeted with a roar and a wave of lances and, even worse, rifles.
     I knew the Indians in the area, of course, and these were all Nipita. Or at least, the ones I could see. They all had their distinctive clothing and markings, though none of the braves were wearing war paint. That told me that they weren’t fixing to attack yet. But attack…where? What in the world would bring together so many Indians together? The Nipita always lived and traveled in small bands; I had never heard of them getting together in such massive numbers. What had brought them all together--the intent of driving the white man back out of their lands? This was a humongous force, utterly frightening. I tried to count the teepees to get a better estimate, but while I was doing that, I heard a noise behind me.
     I turned and looked, and rolled just in time. An Indian had dived at me, knife raised, and when he came down he drove that knife into the ground, right where my heart would have been. Fortunately, not all of the natives had learned the finer arts of stealth.
     As he was trying to yank his blade out of the earth where he had buried it, I quickly hopped up and introduced my boot to the tip of his chin. He fell back, but still had hold of the handle of the knife, and my kick had been enough to help pull the blade out of the ground. He was dazed, but rolled and quickly bounced to his feet, knife extended. I could have drawn my gun and shot him, and if absolutely necessary, I would have to do so. But that could very easily be heard by the Indians below, and even if I could get away from them—which I probably could—they might decide to move their camp and then have to be found all over again. Better that I take this redskin without a gun.
     He came at me quickly, so quickly that I didn’t have time to get my Bowie knife out of the sheath on my hip. He was slashing the knife back and forth, moving towards me, not giving me a chance to make a rush at him. I had to jump back to avoid his slashes, giving ground, waiting for my opportunity. After a few moments, I felt a tree at my back and I saw him smile—he thought he had me now, I had no place else to back up to. But just as he slashed one more time, with the intent of slicing me in two, I pirouetted around the tree and he buried his blade in the trunk. Before he could pull it out, I was back around the tree, and with my hands locked together, I gave him a vicious downward blow on his wrist. I heard the bone snap and he cried out, an anguished expression on his face. Then, I hit him in the stomach, doubling him over and driving all the wind out of him. He staggered and I ripped his knife out of the tree, and up under his breastbone into his heart. His eyes bulged, and he lifted up onto his tiptoes. We looked at each other for a few seconds, faces inches apart, then with blood beginning to seep from both sides of his mouth, his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell to the ground, dead.
     I breathed out, shaken but alive. I don’t especially like killing my fellow man, but when it’s a choice ‘twixt he or me, I’d rather it be him that went to his Maker. I wondered if this fellow was a sentinel for the multitudes below, or if he had simply come up the hill for some reason of his own. Regardless, I didn’t intend to wait around to find out. I had a pretty good idea of the numbers below, and if the Indian I had killed was a lookout guard, I didn’t want to be here in case others were around.
     And I couldn’t leave this man, either. A dead body would be very suspicious, and again, alert the war party below that they had been located. So I picked him up and carried him down the hill towards Ol’ Paint, intending to dump his body at some location where only the buzzards and coyotes could find him. I would have had to load him onto my horse’s back, of course, but fortunately, Ol’ Paint had found a friend. When I got to where I had left him, I saw an Indian pony standing next to him—obviously, belonging to the now-expired Indian in my arms. So, I simply draped the fellow over his own horse, made him secure with my rope, mounted Ol’ Paint, and headed out of there, holding the reins of the pony so he would follow behind.
     My intention—besides disposing of the Indian’s body—was to get to Fort Tyler as rapidly as possible and alert the army. It was almost dark now, so I had to wind and pick my way carefully through the hills and ravines. About six or seven miles from the Indian camp, I found a deep gully where I could dump the dead body and figure he’d never be found. Down he went. I kept the pony, of course, lest he return to the Indian camp masterless and thereby arouse wariness among the restless natives.
     I just hoped they rested long enough for me to get to Ft. Tyler so the army could do something about it.