Nickajack - Hardcover

ROBERT J. CONLEY, a member of the United Keetoowah Band of Cherokees, is the author of over forty books and the recipient of three Spur Awards. He lives in Oklahoma with his wife, Evelyn, also a Cherokee. Mr. Conley writes full time and is currently at work on the fourth book in the ongoing adventures of Kid Parmlee.

Nickajack
CHAPTER 1His name was Nikutsegi. It was an old name, even when it had been given to him at birth.He could remember a time years ago when a white man had asked, "What does it mean?" He had not answered, in fact, had not even understood the question, for he had not known any English at that time. He had later learned to understand and even to speak a little English, but he had never become comfortable with the strange language. They had told him later that the white man had asked for the meaning of his name. And they had answered that it had no meaning. "It's just a name," they had told the white man.Of course it had a meaning. Or at least it had at one time had a meaning. But even inthose days, which now seemed so long ago, there were names of people and of towns and there were other words in the Cherokee language which the people no longer understood. They had lost their meanings. Perhaps they had been part of the old sacred language, most of which had been lost long ages ago when the people had killed the Ani-Kutani, the ruling priests, who had become so tyrannical. Whatever the truth of the matter, he had a name that was just a name, and the white men and the breeds who did not speak Cherokee had begun to call him Nickajack, and sometimes even the Cherokees who spoke their language called him that.Nickajack had never been one to brood. But after he had killed that man, he had not been able to put it out of his mind. He did not know the man's clan, the man known as Common Disturber. But in the old days, the men of Common Disturber's clan would have come for Nickajack. They would have come to kill him, to balance things out between the two clans.Those ways had changed since the white people had come among them and married into the Cherokee Nation and begun raising mixed-blood families. There were even people among the Cherokees who did not know to which clan they belonged. And since the government ofthe Cherokee Nation had remodeled itself in the fashion of the United States with a written constitution, there was in effect a new concept of citizenship.In the old days, if a child had been born of a Cherokee mother, that is, a woman who belonged to one of the seven clans, then that child was a Cherokee, a member of his mother's clan. However, a child as much as half Cherokee whose Cherokee blood was derived only from his father would not have been considered to be a Cherokee for that child would not belong to a clan. But in the new Cherokee Nation, any child born with a mother or father who had Cherokee blood was called a Cherokee citizen.Chief John Ross was more white man than Indian, yet his Cherokee blood had come from his mother, and he had been born into a clan. He, at least, was Cherokee according to the old ways. But these younger Ridges and Boudinots and others like them, their fathers had married white women. Their mothers were white. They had no clan, and therefore, according to the old ways, they were not Cherokee. They were, of course, citizens, under the new system. And under the new system, Nickajack had committed a crime against the Cherokee Nation, had broken one of the laws of the land, when he had killed Common Disturber. In the old daysthat act would have been a crime against Common Disturber's clan.All of these thoughts troubled the mind of Nickajack as he tried to go about the business of his daily life.Nickajack was not an intellectual. He had never been a scholar, and thoughts of this nature were almost painful to his brain. He rose early in the morning, as usual. He wrapped himself in a blanket and walked outside to relieve himself. Back inside the one-room cabin which he had built himself with logs, with the help of his friend and neighbor Coffee Soldier, he added more wood to the fire in the hearth. Then he began to make some coffee. He did that by simply tossing a handful of coffee grounds into a pot of boiling water.He glanced over at his wife. She was still asleep. His own sleep had been troubled and fitful, and he was up a little earlier than usual. She would wake soon enough, he thought. He went outside again. There were animals to be fed: his white mule, some hogs and chickens. All, he thought, as he went automatically through his chores, all animals brought across the ocean by the white man. His brain felt tired.And overriding or underneath or behind all of these troubling thoughts was the one big thought, nagging and persistent, the thoughtthat had stimulated all of this unusual brain activity in the head of Nickajack.He had killed a man.But that was not really a thought. It was more a feeling or a sort of stunned realization. It was a feeling that he did not like, and it was constant. He would have this uncomfortable feeling, he supposed, for as long as he lived.There were Cherokees who carried with them through their lives the old honorable "killer" names: Nunnahi-dihi, Pathkiller; Tsata-dihi, Choctawkiller; Gusoi-dihi, Creekkiller; Yonega-dihi, Whitekiller; Nungi-dihi, Fourkiller; Sudali-dihi, Sixkiller; Sgohidihi, Tenkiller, and others, but that was different. The names were old and had become family names, surnames like the white man used. Originally they had been war titles, and the people who now carried the names had ancestors who had earned them honorably. And the names had been earned by warriors who had killed their enemies.But Nickajack had killed another Cherokee. If he had earned a name it would be Tsalagidihi , Cherokeekiller, or perhaps just Didahihi, murderer. He did not like the feeling, and he did not like the thoughts which it provoked in his head.He made himself as busy as he could, tending to the animals, working on a section offence that really did not need mending, anything to try to keep his mind off the other business. But nothing worked. The tasks were routine manual tasks, leaving his mind free to wander on its own. He was aware of a constant dull pain in his head. He knew that if he could only quit thinking, the ache would go away with the thoughts. But he could not stop. He could not control his own mind.At lunch he sat with his right elbow on the table, his head resting heavily against the palm of his hand. His wife looked at him, and her brow wrinkled. She knew him well, and she could tell when he was troubled."What is it?" she asked."My head hurts," he said, but she read his mind. She knew why his head was hurting."You had no choice," she said. "There wasn't time to think. You did what any man would have done, and many women, too.""I killed a man," he said."You had no choice.""He was a Cherokee," said Nickajack, "and I killed him."When they had finished eating, the children went outside to play. It was cold out. It was the month the Cherokees call Unoluhtana, Cold Wind. The white men called it January. And it was a cold January there in the western foothills of the Ozark mountains. Still, the childrenwent outside. When children want to play, they ignore the cold. It doesn't matter to them. Nickajack envied them a little.He was still sitting at the table there, still holding his head, when the riders came. The children heard them first, but, being children, they did not immediately sound the alarm. They waited and watched until they could see the riders coming, but once they saw them, they ran into the house shouting."Someone's coming. Someone's coming.""A bunch of men on horses."Nickajack had an old pistol, a .46-caliber Kentucky flintlock converted to percussion. He kept it loaded and hanging on a peg over the fireplace.He looked up briefly into the eyes of his woman. Her eyes were questioning, pleading. His were desperate. They looked into each other's eyes for only an instant before he stood up and moved across the room to the fireplace.He reached up and took the pistol from its peg. He checked the load, and then, the pistol in his right hand, he moved to the door."Latch the door behind me," he said, and he opened the door and stepped outside. The riders were getting close.There were six of them, and he could see that they were all well armed. He listened for the sound of the bar falling into place behindhim on the other side of the door, and he watched the riders as they came closer and as they began to fan out in a wide semicircle. He stood waiting, the gun in his right hand held down at his side.The riders moved slowly now, but they did not stop until the one in the middle, directly in front of Nickajack, was close enough for a pistol shot."Nickajack," said the rider."I am Nikutsegi," he answered. "Who are you?""Do you speak English?" asked the rider, for Nickajack had spoken to him in Cherokee."Not well," said Nickajack.The rider looked to his right and called out to another of the men."Soap," he said. "Come here."The man called Soap rode over close to the other one there in front of Nickajack."Tell him who we are," said the first man, "and tell him what we're here for.""My name is Ohla," said Soap, speaking in Cherokee. "This is Captain Scott. We're Light-horse, from Tahlequah."Nickajack knew the Lighthorse, Ani-niyisgi, the Catchers, Cherokee National Police. He was not quite sure how they could be from Tahlequah. There was hardly anyplace there to be from: the large square laid out for the nationalcapital with its big council shed and two or three small log cabins behind to serve as governmental buildings. Around the square were a few places of business: inns for travelers, the houses of public cooks, and three or four stores.It was scarcely three years since the John Ross government had arrived from the old homelands over what they were already calling the Trail of Tears or the Trail Where They Cried. The Cherokee speakers usually just called it the Way They Came. But the John Ross government had selected the spot for the capital of the Cherokee Nation, and they had named it Tahlequah, or Daligwa.Some of the people who did not speak Cherokee were already telling a tale about the name. They said that Chief Ross had sent some men out to look for a place where three streams came together, and there they would build their capital. These men looked and found a nice spot where two streams came together, and then they said, "Tali eliqua," or "Two is enough," and that became the name of the place. But Nickajack knew better than that.He knew that they simply used an old town name from their original homeland. Back there, in Georgia and North Carolina and the other southern states that had driven the Cherokees west, the white people called that same oldword, "Tellico." It was like his name. It was an old word, and its meaning was lost. He stood looking at the Catchers from Tahlequah."What do you want?" he asked."We've come to arrest you for the murder of Common Disturber," said Soap. "You should put down your gun. We don't want to kill you. There will be a trial.""That was his name?" said Nickajack."Common Disturber," said Soap. "Yes.""I didn't know him," said Nickajack. "They came at me. Three of them. I defended myself. I didn't even know him. I didn't know any of them. I never killed a man before.""That's what the trial will be for," said Soap. "You've been charged with the murder of Common Disturber, so we have to arrest you, but at the trial, you can tell your story. If you're not guilty, they'll let you go.""I killed him," said Nickajack."Yes," said Soap, "but the trial will determine whether the killing was murder or self-defense. Put your gun down and come with us."He could have fired one shot, and maybe he could have killed Soap or Captain Scott, but he had only one shot, and the others would have killed him. Besides, he did not want to kill Soap or the Captain or anyone else. He would not have killed Common Disturber if hehad only had time to think or to run. It had all happened before he could think. He had only reacted to the situation. Thinking back, it was as if he had not even really done it. It was as if he had watched someone else.He leaned slightly to one side and placed the pistol, still uncocked, on a tree stump that stood there beside him."Howa," he said. "All right. I'll go with you. Let me get my mule."And he had ridden into Tahlequah with the Catchers.Copyright © 1992 by Robert J. Conley.