"They must die," Otoomie said stiffly, his words knife-edged in the soft night. How great was the contrast between the menace in the Keetoowah Society leader's words and the humid night alive with winking lightning bugs and the thundering snap of distant summer lightning. Not far from their Takatoka meeting place bubbled the sweet water of Double Springs, promising only life amid the gently rolling, grass-carpeted hills. Everywhere nature belied the vengeance promised so angrily by those huddled sullenly around the fires.

Trembling with pent-up emotion, Allen Ross stepped forward into the ring of light cast by the largest of the fires in the clearing. He felt the presence of so many others--could as many as two hundred warriors have assembled? Was the hatred for those who had signed the Treaty of New Echota this great? Allen felt heat from both the fire and from the communal anger. He shared some of that wrath, but not in such a great measure. His father always cautioned moderation, especially after the deaths of principal chiefs Charles Hicks and Pathkiller twelve years earlier had brought about so much division in the Cherokee Nation.

How filled those years had been, Allen reflected. The Treaty of New Echota allowed the Old Settlers like Boudinot, Ridge and Watie to take the best land in the Western Cherokee Nation. Illegally, they had signed that treaty and then sold tribal land in Georgia to the white man in violation of Cherokee laws and then had preceded John Ross and the majority of the Cherokee westward, avoiding the travails along the Trail of Tears. The Keetoowah Society, formed mostly of full-blooded Cherokee, cried out with increasing venom about the iniquity of their position. Their friends and kinsmen had died on the march to Indian Territory, and now they were forced to raise crops in a country totally different from their traditional lands. They were proud hunters, not farmers. Worse, they had to compete against the Old Settlers' farms established years earlier, mostly run by Negro slaves skilled in agriculture. This was not the way a Cherokee ought to live.

"Elias Boudinot and all the others were wrong in signing away our land," Allen Ross said, his voice shaking with emotion. He rubbed his hands nervously on his pants legs, wondering what his father would say if he had known of this meeting and stood in front of the Keetoowah Society--the Pins. Everywhere he looked Allen saw the reflection of light off the sign of membership on the collars and on the fronts of vests. Pins. Simple straight pins, mostly, in a cross pattern. They were a symbol for integrity and maintaining the old ways, the ways of the full-blooded Cherokee.

He closed his eyes and heard his father's voice as plainly as those of the Pins around him. John Ross had opposed the treaty requiring the Cherokee to leave their Southern homelands and move to the unknown far west, but he would never permit murder, even of his most bitter political opponents.

As if every word flashing through Allen's mind sprouted from his lips and raced to Otoomie's ear, the leader who whipped up the spirit of killing in these Keetoowah Society members answered his objections. Otoomie stepped to Allen's side, dark eyes flashing. His flat nose twitched slightly as his nostrils flared and a scar on his cheek gleamed a dull pink in the firelight, giving him a fierce aspect that matched his words.

"The laws of our nation permit this killing," Otoomie said. "Major Ridge himself invoked it back in Georgia, and now we invoke it against him and the others who have sold tribal land. I have spoken with clan leaders and have been assured there will be no reprisal. It is our way. It is the way of the Cherokee."

Allen knew Otoomie was a full-blood, unlike those he indicted and sentenced to death. He swallowed hard, realizing how fragile his own position was. His father was only one-eighth Cherokee and might have been included with the Ridge-Boudinot faction had it not been for his forceful speeches against the treaty. John Ross ironically had ended up the leader of the majority of Cherokee, mostly full-bloods, while the minority lead by Elias Boudinot and Major Ridge controlled the purse strings of the nation.

Was peace with the white man worth the loss of so much of their hereditary land? The Red Stick War had shown how dangerous the white man could be on the war path, and Andrew Jackson had heaped scorn on them at every turn. But the treaty was a fact. Killing those who spoke loudest in favor it--and those who profited most--was still wrong.

But not too wrong, Allen Ross thought.

"If our laws permit it, why do we sneak about in the night?" he countered.

"You know the reason. Chief Brown and John Ross have not been able to form a new government because Ridge and Boudinot are powerful men, intent only on their own fortunes. The might of their influence does not change how they have wronged our tribe. They must die." At Otoomie's words, a ripple of agreement passed through those assembled. Here and there glinted unsheathed knives and tomahawks whooshed through the air, as if seeking fleshy targets and being denied.

Then the silence that fell around the assembly wore on Allen until a collective sigh was let out and cheering began. With the shouts of resolve came whoops and dancing in a long snake-like line that wound in and out around the smaller fires.

"Go to your father," Otoomie said to Allen. "We know how he might oppose us. Keep him from interfering in what must be done. They must die. They will die for what they have done to our proud nation."

Allen nodded and slipped from the clearing. The sound of moccasin and boot sole tapping hard on the ground as the Keetoowahs danced accompanied him until he reached his carriage. He whipped the horse and got it moving back toward his father's house outside Tahlequah in Park Hill. The deaths would anger John Ross, but Allen did not think his father would mourn any of those who died.

He couldn't pretend sorrow because he had opposed Major Ridge and the others too fiercely and for so long. It was time to act now that words had failed. Allen Ross whipped his horse and got it trotting in the direction of Rose Cottage where John Ross slept, not knowing how the destiny of the Cherokee was to be changed this night.

Just before dawn, twenty men crept closer to the neat, small Honey Creek home of John Ridge. Ten circled to the rear to cut off any escape. The others climbed softly up the steps to the front porch with its chairs and arrayed themselves along the wall of the house. Their leader pushed back his hair from his eyes, drew a knife and then banged loudly on the door.

"John Ridge!" he cried. "Come out, Ridge!"

From inside the house came gentle sounds, sounds of a man awakened from a deep sleep. The Pins exchanged looks. Such was life with the Old Settlers. They slept away the day when others were already in the fields futilely trying to raise wheat and beans and timothy. Ridge wouldn't sully his hands with such work. His slaves would be out in his vast fields, toiling away for him.

"Who's there?"

"Ridge!" repeated the leader of the Pins, his fingers tight on the hilt of his knife. Impatience overtook him. He kicked open the door and burst into the house, brandishing his weapon. The bedroom off the larger common room showed where John Ridge still lay in his bed. With a whoop, the assassin leaped forward.

John Ridge's eyes widened when he saw the knife rise and then plunge downward into his chest. He gasped, then spat forth a torrent of blood as he fell from his bed to the floor. Ridge's wife sat up in bed and shrieked. Her cries brought her children running. They clung to her in fear of their own lives.

Those Pins who had watched now leaped to the attack, dragging the still moaning Ridge from his house into the yard. Tomahawks and knives ended Ridge's life as his horrified family watched helplessly.

Only when the mutilated body began drawing flies and ants did the killing frenzy subside and the twenty left, proud of their mission and how they helped execute the traitor to the Cherokee Nation.

Major Ridge stretched old, tired muscles and went into the out building. Two of his slaves were still down with belly cramps from eating green apples. He considered getting the doctor out to look at them if they didn't improve by noon, but that decision could wait until after he had mended the harness. Bellyaches weren't usually too serious, but these had gone on for two days. Everything fell apart at the same time, or so it always seemed. He laid out the leather strips and matched them to the broken harness from his carriage.

Punching holes with a slender awl, ancient hands held up his handiwork and smiled. No one worked leather better. For fifty years, no one had been able to match his skill. Major Ridge began the easier part of the job, stitching the pieces together so he would get more service from the harness. Everything cost more here in Arkansas, but especially just across the Mississippi in Indian Territory where the entire Cherokee Nation was dependent on trade with the United States. The wily white traders always managed to work a deal to their own benefit.

He thought on this as he worked and decided he would mention it to his son, John. They might put together a mercantile association and turn the tables, selling to the whites around Fort Gibson rather than always being on the wrong end of the trade. He could arrange for transport from other parts of Arkansas and even Louisiana, up the Mississippi and then to Fort Gibson by barge along the Arkansas River cheaper than the Yankee traders brought their wares overland from Kansas.

It was worth considering, but he had to drive to Vineyard. Then he could see about Jed and George and their bellyaches. He hitched up his horse to the carriage, using the mended harness, then climbed in. Ridge wasn't sure which was worse, cold winters that froze his joints so painfully or the hot summer which caused every muscle in his body to twitch and creak in protest. He snapped the reins and got the horse moving, drove to the road and headed toward Vineyard.

He normally appreciated the quiet drive with the red rock bluffs on either side of the road and the greenery so much like home, back in Virginia. Today his mind wandered. Major Ridge never saw the glint of sunlight off the pistol or the killers who waited impatiently for him to come into range.

Shots rang out. Major Ridge jerked about as the slugs ripped through his body. The horse reared at the sudden noise and kicked out before settling down, dutifully walking along the road toward its accustomed destination, its driver dead.

"Mr. Boudinot, please, we need your help," pleaded the shortest of the three.

"What can I do for you?" Elias Boudinot asked. The hot sun beat down on him. He wiped away sweat and then put his broad-brimmed black hat back on. He had never seen any of these men before.

"Our families are in sore need of medicine, sir," spoke the tallest, "And we don't have any money. Come with us to Dr. Worcester. He knows you. If you speak for us, he'll let us work off the debt."

"I don't know you, either," Boudinot said. He glanced at the sun. It was past ten, going on eleven o'clock, and he had work to do, but he remembered how needy so many Cherokee had been arriving after the Trail of Tears. Never had he turned his back on any in need, and he wasn't going to now. "You fellows have your own farms or are you working for someone?" Boudinot frowned when they exchanged glances, as if not sure what he meant.

The one of middle height spoke for the trio. "We only do day work. We've just arrived from New Echota and there's no land. Don't know anything about farming."

"I'd hire you, but there's not much enough for my hands as it is," Elias Boudinot said. He heaved a sigh. "You get work in Tahlequah and I'll talk to Dr. Worcester in your behalf. More than that, I cannot do."

"Thank you, sir," said the short one. "Our families are real sick, and we need medicine. Can you come now to Park Hill with us? I don't know if my wife's going to make it another day without medicine."

"Very well," Boudinot said, with a deep sigh. "I know what it's like to have a sick wife. Mine's been feeling poorly, too."

"We'll hitch your wagon for you," offered the middle one. He and his two companions rushed to prepare the wagon with its double team. Boudinot watched them hurry. It was a bother taking time right now when the entire nation needed a new government and John Ross, Reverend Jesse Bushyhead and even Sequyoah himself were unable to bring all the factions together. The disunity did not surprise Boudinot, who was no stranger to political maneuvering, but it did wear him down a mite. John Ross could be so pigheaded at times.

"Here, hurry, we need to go," urged the tallest, already in the driver's box. The other two helped Boudinot into the wagon bed, and they rattled off on the road to Park Hill.

"When did you arrive?" Boudinot asked.

"Not long ago," the driver said over his shoulder. "We've only been here a short time."

Boudinot frowned. Something did not seem right to him.

"What's wrong with your families?" he asked.

"Sick," said another. "We told you that."

"Sick how? There's been malaria in the lowlands, along the river."

"Not malaria," said the driver.

Elias Boudinot shifted his weight, ready to ask another, more pointed question. He never got the chance. Strong arms pinned his arms behind him. The knife flashing in the bright noonday sun quickly vanished--into his gut. Over and over the three men hacked and slashed at Boudinot with knife and tomahawk, then left him dead in his wagon.

"Such a fine house. We have nothing as good," said one of the fifteen Pins who had gone to kill Stand Watie. "We should burn it to the ground."

"No," said another. "The clan will allow us only to punish those who broke the law. Watie sold tribal land. For that he must be punished, but we will not harm his wife or children. Or burn his house."

Grumbling accompanied this decision. Dawn stroked the sky with a gray and pink rake, followed by a bright sun in a cloudless blue dome stretching from horizon to horizon. It would be a hot day. But the dozen who had come to kill Stand Watie proved patient. He would emerge from this fine house and then they would surround him and kill him. Two had pistols. The rest carried knives and tomahawks. Even a man with the fierce reputation Watie enjoyed could never stand against such an attack.

"Where is he? Does he sleep away the day? Look, he has slaves in his fields, but where is he?"

"They have water and food. We don't," complained another. "Let's find and kill him so we can eat."

Resolve faded as the sun climbed into the sky and Stand Watie did not appear. The gang of assassins went down the hill toward the neat, two-story brick house. Silent hand motions sent out the men in a half circle around the house to cut off any escape. Then the leader went onto the sawed plank porch and rapped on the door.

A young woman came to the door.

"Mrs. Watie?"

"Yes, I'm Sarah Watie."

"I need to speak to your husband."

Sarah Watie blinked, looked past the man to where the others stood impatiently in the front yard. Chickens pecked at them, and they ignored it. She felt an uneasiness at the sight of so many men trying to look unconcerned.

"Mr. Watie's not here. He went to Fort Gibson."

"When will he return?"

Sarah Watie wiped her hands on her apron and stared boldly at her inquisitor. She came to an easy decision.

"Not for a week or longer. If you return then, I am sure he will be glad to meet with you." She edged to her right where a shotgun leaned against the inside wall. Seeing the hesitation in her unknown visitor, she reached out and laid her hand on the cold metal. It could be brought to bear in a flash--if the need arose.

"You are not lying?" demanded the man on her doorstep.

"There is no need to be insulting," she said tartly. "If you like, help yourself to some of the water before you leave. You have the look of a man--of men--who need to cool off."

The Pin spun and stalked away. Sarah caught her breath when she saw the number of men with him. More came from behind her house, men she had not realized were in position to cut off any possible retreat.

"What have you gotten yourself into now, Stand Watie?" she said under her breath. Only when the would-be assassins vanished into the hills did she take her hand off the shotgun and send a slave into Tahlequah to fetch her husband.

Copyright © 1999 Robert E. Vardeman