Vengeance

"My reason teaches me that land cannot be sold. The Great Spirit gave it to his children to live upon. So long as they occupy and cultivate it, they have a right to the soil. Nothing can be sold but such things as can be carried away"
Chief Black Hawk - Sauk


“That’s where he hung himself,” Sheriff Dick Eblen said. “Up there in the loft.”

Scott Renslow looked up at the hemp rope and took three quick pictures of the noose.

“And the wife?” Scott asked.

“He killed her and their Irish Setter down by the lake. A crazy Chippewa Indian...lives 'cross the lake, found ‘em.”

“How did he kill them, Sheriff?”

“Used an ax...chopped ‘em up pretty good, too,” the burly sheriff said, as he worked his way toward the cabin door.

The sheriff wanted nothing more to do with Scott. He was no different than most people in law enforcement; once they found out Scott freelanced, they avoided him. Find a gruesome story, take pictures, do a write up and sell to the highest bidder was what Scott did best. He had no conscience when it came to making a profit from the atrocious cruelties men and women did to one another.

Editors didn’t understand his passion, his thirst for success. His last boss, in Boston, accused him of being an impulsive, hot-headed bully. The Kansas City Star's editor said, "You're brash and reckless, Renslow," and then fired him.

Screw them, Screw them all, Scott thought. He didn’t need them to get where he was going. In the end, he wanted to be at the top of the heap, regardless of who got in his way.

“Why would a state senator hang himself, Sheriff?” Scott questioned.

“Listen, Renslow, somebody higher up the food chain issued orders for me to take down the yellow ribbon and let ya in. Nobody said I had to answer any damn questions. Ya got that?”

“Okay, Sheriff," Scott answered before his gaze went back to the rope. "One more thing though."

“Make it quick, Renslow.”

“Why is the rope still hanging from the rafters?”

Scott sensed the sheriff’s demeanor change. “We take it down and another one takes its place. Real spooky...like magic...can’t explain it,” the sheriff answered, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

“Magic?” Scott scoffed.

“Believe what ya want, Renslow,” the sheriff barked as he turned toward the door. “Leave the keys in the mailbox when yer finished here, I’m gettin’ back to town ‘fore dark.”

Country bumpkin, Scott thought, as he watched the sheriff drive off

Convinced he'd found another money making story, Scott read his notes.

Minnesota Senator indicted for fraud and misuse of Chippewa land. Commits murder and suicide.

Darkness engulfed the cabin when Scott returned from the lake shore. His readers liked gore, he wouldn’t disappoint them. Satisfied with his photographs of the blood stained, grassy embankment, the self-absorbed reporter smiled when he thought about the money the tabloids would eagerly pay.

Scott stepped inside the lavishly furnished cabin, stood in front of the fireplace and stared up at a large painting. Two wild mustangs were reared up on hind legs, stallions, one black and one white were in mortal combat. The white horse is winning, Scott thought, mesmerized by the scene.

The sound of muffled footfalls broke the cabin’s silence. The self-assured reporter jerked his head around and unconsciously looked up. Scott’s eyes grew wide when he saw the frayed rope. The noose was gone.

A tall man, dressed in buckskins, with a painted face and feathers fixed in his braided-black hair stepped from the shadows. In his left hand he held the missing noose; in his right hand he gripped a doubled bladed ax.

Scott gasped and finally spoke. “Who...who are you?” he whimpered.

The painted interloper dropped the noose, held the ax in both hands and like a creature of the forest, advanced toward his prey.

“I'm the crazy Chippewa Indian that’s going to take another white man’s life.”

Scott fell to his knees and begged for his life. “You don’t have to do this...I have money...I can tell your story...please...”

The vengeful Chippewa warrior raised the ax high above his head and swung the weapon downward.

Autor's note: Please do not conclude after reading this story that I think Chippewa Indians are crazy. I used the words and expression in the literal sense only. I respect all Native Americans and the Native American Nations.