An Indian writes a short story about Red Indians

And Then There Were None

By Shevlin Sebastian

Ahiga, the Red Indian of the Cherokee tribe, with a shaved head, stood on a flat outcrop of rock. He was a lean man with bulging biceps. He wore a beaded necklace with the claw of a bison at one end. Ahiga picked up a small piece of rock and threw it in a long arc. He watched it fall to the ground far below and roll for a while, like a squirrel doing a series of somersaults.

When the 25-year-old looked to the left, he could see a range of hills made of rocks and boulders. Between Ahiga and the hills, there was an enormous expanse of red mud. In some places, the land was flat and in other areas, the terrain was undulating. If Ahiga squinted his eyes, he could see the ruts made by the wheels of wagons belonging to the cowboys. On Ahiga’s right, there was another outcropping rising a few thousand feet high.

Behind Ahiga, a fire raged. Six red Indians sat on their haunches and stared at the fire. Above it, a skinned pig was being cooked. On the right, there were many conical-shaped tepees. One Indian, the middle-aged Inola, poked the fire with a long stick. Strips of fire flared up.

The flap of the large tepee opened.

Wohali, the chief, in his feathered headgear, came out and strolled towards the group. He sat on his haunches and rubbed his palms together near the fire. It was getting cold as darkness settled on the horizon in this section of Texas. The year is 1790.

Ahiga also strode up and joined the group. They sat in silence as they experienced the stillness all around. Small, glittering stars appeared in the sky.

Onacona, a tribal elder, said, “The cowboys have set up their homes some distance from here. They have guns and revolvers. We only have bows and arrows and are vulnerable on this flat surface, Chief. We need to move.”

Wohali nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “We will move up to the mountains on the other side, but we will need to find a place where there is water. This was an ideal place.”

Indeed, right behind them was a clear stream, which had many pebbles and small rocks. You could see fish swimming at the bottom. There were large trees on the other side. The Indians got their fruits, honey, and figs from there. They lived on the edge of a vast expanse of mud and hills.

But the group had moved to this location only a few days ago. They had to do this, as the cowboys and their families seemed to move all over the place. It seemed to the Indians that the whites wanted to exterminate them. Instead of a peace dialogue, the cowboys let their bullets do the talking. The schism between the two communities was as wide as the Red Sea. 

“I understand,” Onacona said in a respectful voice. “But if we stay here, we will all die.”

It was a stark warning. Wohali understood it. He knew Onacona would not say this unless the situation was dangerous. Onacona was an experienced warrior. He had seen many moons. He also had high intuition. The others remained silent and stared at the fire. The pig turned a deep brown. An aroma like roasted beef arose in the air. Ahiga’s nose twitched in anticipation of the meal. They were now sitting in darkness.

Wohali had always relied on Onacona’s experience.

He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. It seemed as if his body was telling him to move fast.

Wohali looked at the group, one by one.

They stared back. Everybody felt pressure within themselves. It had become a matter of life and death. 

“Okay,” said Wohali. “We will move tomorrow, come what may.”

The others smiled and nodded. This meant they had all agreed with Onacona about the urgent need to move.

Inola took the pig down. Using a knife, he cut up the animal into small pieces. He placed them inside the leaves. The Indians took them back to their tepees to eat with boiled beans and corn. They told their family members about their impending dislocation.

Onacona’s wife Behita said, “We just arrived here. How many times will we have to move? This is a pleasant place, with plenty of water.”

“I know, but the white people are all over the place,” said Onacona in a patient tone. “Ahiga spotted a group several kilometres away. They might come this way.”

Behita pressed her lips together.

“How long can we run?” she asked.

It was a question that hung in the air inside their tepee and also in the other tepees. Indeed, how long could they run before the cowboys killed them?

Behita gazed at the animal rugs on the floor, the clothes hanging on a nail, and the hides nailed to the wall. ‘All will have to be loaded again,’ she thought. She blew out the small fire in the middle with a blast of air from her mouth. She lay down beside her husband on a mat on the ground opposite the entrance.

Outside, Ahiga kept guard with another young Red Indian, Dakota.

It was 1 a.m. They kept the fire burning by throwing in twigs and leaves. Dakota’s head nodded as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. But Ahiga stood on one side, staring at the starry sky, as the cries of the cicadas interrupted the silence.

Two cowboys, Austin Smith and Brock Mathews, crept up behind Ahiga. The blue-eyed Austin stood up, placing his palm around Ahiga’s mouth, to prevent him from shouting. As Ahiga tried to turn, Austin slit his neck cleanly from the back, as the blood gurgled out in soft squirts, and laid him down.

Austin wiped the blood off his knife on Ahiga’s leather tunic. Dakota was now fast asleep. Brock pressed his palm against Dakota’s mouth while slicing his throat. Austin and Brock gestured with their hands.

Thirty other cowboys came up. They had tied their horses some distance away around a few tree trunks. The men walked the rest of the distance, coming in from the other side of the stream. They had known about this Red Indian camp. Brock had spotted the group from a distance when he went for a reconnaissance ride. He found the access to water most convenient. For their community, they needed this location.

A few of the cowboys lit sticks of tinder, using the fire that Ahiga had kept burning. They walked on tiptoes and stuck them to the tepees.

The tepees caught fire.

As the flames grew in intensity, the shouts of the Indian inmates rose in a crescendo, like a church choir practising the high notes.

Thick plumes of black smoke rose into the sky. There was an acrid smell.

As the Red Indians and their families came rushing out, the cowboys aimed their revolvers at them. There were yells and groans of agony as the bullets hit the defenceless targets. Blood spurted out. A woman was sobbing while holding a dead child in her arms. A Red Indian placed an arrow on his bow. But before he could draw the string, a bullet pierced his forehead with a cracking sound. None of them had expected this attack, including Onacona, who had a gift for predicting the future. But this time he failed.

People fell and landed spread-eagled on the ground. Some lay face down in the mud, arms extended. Others lay on their sides. Blood flowed from wounds on the head, face, chest, stomach, and legs. Some had open mouths, while others looked to be in deep slumber. There was the odour of blood, like that of iron. Out of sheer fear, a few men had soiled their pants.

As the tepees burned, it resembled an arc of fire framed against a dark horizon.

Soon, the cowboys had determined that all forty of them were dead. Thereafter, a group brought back the shovels they had kept in bags slung around their horses’ necks.

They moved a few feet away and dug into the ground. The men let out grunts and exhaled.

The minutes passed. A small mound of mud formed at the edges. Everybody inhaled the wet smell of the mud.

Once the pit was ready, one man held the hands and another the feet and they threw the bodies into the pit. For the children, one man could do the job, holding their legs with one hand. They flung them like dolls. The bodies lay piled up, one on top of the other. Finally, they threw in Ahiga and Dakota, both young men, in their prime.

The men stared at the pit. A few men wiped their faces with a kerchief. They knew it was a necessary deed. It was a matter of survival — kill or be killed. A few of them sat on their haunches, trying to get their breath back.

In the eerie silence, a coyote let out a bark followed by a howl. A couple of men noticed the hairs on their arms stood up.

The men began shovelling the mud back into the pit. Soon, they had covered the pit. The cowboys used the back of the shovels to tap down the mud and make it a smooth surface. 

Meanwhile, the fire was dying out among the tepees.

It was an exhausted group that trudged towards the horses. They returned home and washed their faces, legs, and hands. But when they closed their eyes, they saw images of the destruction they had wrought.

The next day, they came again. The cowboys bent and poked the ashes with wooden sticks to look for valuables. Some found gold rings and necklaces.

Within a few days, the white settlers took over the land. They formed a circle with their wagons to ward off attacks in the future. In the daytime, the boys ran to the bank of the stream. They took off their shirts and jumped into the water, letting out squeals of delight. They were not aware that other children of their age were rotting in a nearby pit, killed by their fathers. Sometimes, the women took the clothes and scrubbed them by the side of the stream. They felt calm and peaceful beside the serene stream.

There was no sign anymore that there had indeed been a Red Indian camp anywhere.

The white conquest was complete.

Many Indian tribes suffered the same fate

Later, some historians described it as a genocide.