Pancarre's Ticaboo

Panacarre's Ticaboo

By Ruth Savage Hilton

"Berries! Wild berries!" shouted a tow-headed little urchin, as he beckoned to his comrades playing in the center of a little fort made by some half score log huts which comprised the vil- lage of Panwana. This shout was followed by a general scramble of bare feet, as the youngsters gathered around Old Panacarre. The Indian's copper-colored face screwed up to what he meant for a laugh, while his clear, black eyes sparkled with whole- souled delight, as he watched the eager children plunge into — the fruit autumn's gift from the woodlands. Panacarre was the children's best friend. They knew him as the kind old Indian who lived alone in his wick-i-up, among the foot hills of Mount Kimboo, the mount which guarded, in solemn majesty, this quaint little vale. However, he termed himself a "Mohave Brave." 'Twas at his wick-i-up that the vil- lage youngsters listened to the tales of the departed glory of the Mohaves; 'twas he who taught them the games of the wood- land, how to catch the biggest fish, and find the sweetest ber- ries, always sharing with them the spoils of the hunt. — "Mine O! leave me some," cried little Billy Taylor, the cripple, who had been unable to keep up with his fleeing com- rades, and to his dismay saw the fruit fast disappearing. But no one heard Billy, for just then a dusty horseman came gal- loping into the little fort breathlessly exclaiming: "Indian war! Navajos and Apaches both on the trail! Guard your lives and your property. Don't trust an Indian anywhere! Warn your neighbors!" A cloud of blinding dust, and he was gone. Assembled in council the villagers, frightened half out of their wits, decided that among other measures to be taken for their safety old Panacarre must be disarmed. This task was assigned William Stanley, the Indian's best friend. Stanley started at once for the lonely wick-i-up. At every step his distaste grew for the job assigned him, so that he walked slowly. It was early dusk when he climbed the last little

raise before the Indian's residence. "Howdy," greeted the white man. Panacarre evidenced great delight, and hastened to spread his best robe, made of rabbit skins, which he had laboriously sewed together with rabbit skin twine of his own fashioning.

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"Me heap fine. How you?" grunted the host as he squatted on the robe beside his guest. Stanley felt uncomfortable, scarcely knowing how to begin. A dead silence fell. The old Indian watched his visitor closely, saw his eyes wander through the opening, and rest on the jagged peaks of Mt. Kimboo which shone resplendent in the rays of the setting sun. The old man was enrapt with its splendor. "Wino! Wino!" he cried. "Fine, big mount." Was it the scene, the quietude, or the twilight shadows, that tempted old Panacarre to talk as he had never talked before? With many gestures and plaintive words he told of the great southwest when it was known as the realm of the unexplored: where, as a youth, he had dwelt with his people. How he learned to love the peaceful glow of the campfire; the thrilling excite- ment of the hunt; the wild delight of the snake dance; and real — Indian lore the tales of his fathers. His voice grew lower as he told how he wooed and wed his woodland bride, bringing her to the foothills of Mt. Kimboo, during a glorious Indian summer. Then came the war the — — "great war" an unequal struggle forced on his people by neighboring tribes, Navajos and Apaches. Two years of this struggle left the Mohaves disheartened, scattered and impoverished. Disease came next, striking a death blow to the remnant of a once powerful race. Panacarre's kind old eyes shone with pathetic tenderness as he told how the grim reaper entered his wick-i-up, and then he laid his mate and their papoose by the side of the ancient chiefs of Mohave. His few remaining comrades became alarmed, superstition sent them in mad flight to the mountains, never to return. They had urged Panacarre to come with them. Slowly, al- — most reverently, he said: "Me told them no Panacarre stay in the land of his fathers— stay by the side of his dead." This resolve brought forth the Medicine man bedecked with beads, stones and reptile skins, his features distorted and hideously painted. Shaking the gnarled black stick, which he always carried, he chanted in a weird uncanny voice: "Pana- carre stay, he heap love pale face. Many moons pass then he— be heap scared." True to his resolve the warrior stayed, stayed alone, as a sentinel over the memory of a vanquished tribe. Thus the frontiersmen found him and rejoiced at the wel- come he gave them. "Panacarre heap glad you come," he added warmly ^fter a moment's pause. "Yes," slowly assented Stanley, "but Indians all mad, they fight."

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I know; heap bad Injuns, Navajos, Apaches." "But whites are scared. Indians kill 'em and steal their cows." "Navajos no likey Mohave. Mohave good Injun." As Panacarre said this, he shot a look of confidence at his white friend. Not only did Stanley fail to return the look but he answered — — — rather doggedly: "Whites heap scared they they want your gun." "My caribine!" exclaimed the astonished red man. He could not believe it. His friends, his neighbors, they disarm him, a lone Mohave, in as much danger of the invading foe as they? He stood dumb in astonishment, while Stanley gestured and argued until he fully got the meaning, understood that no matter who he was, his skin was of a copper hue, hence even his friends refused to trust him. "I am whites' ticaboo (friend) Navajos killey me," he added ;

lamely. "Panacarre hungely, need gun to killey buckskin." The white man was touched by the old Indians pleading. Stepping closer he took Panacarre's hand in his, laid the other on his shoulder, looking straight into the eyes of the brave, he said: "I'm Panacarre's best ticaboo. Believe me, I will protect you. No harm shall come to you till I return your gun." Slowly Panacarre handed over his old weapon. Stanley turned to leave, but the old Indian caught his hand and pressed it reaffirmingly, then said, almost plaintively: "Panacarre's tica- boo." Left alone his head dropped dejectedly. Some of the old fire in his eyes went out. For hours he lay watching the moon slowly climb over the crags. Then he slept, slept and dreamed of that happy Indian summer, long ago, when he first brought his woodland bride to the foothills. Next morning the villagers had their fears augmented when Jack Wilson came in to report the horrors being committed on all sides by the invading natives. His own father had recently been murdered by the redskins. The man worked himself up to such an absurd, ridiculous rage that he swore by all that was good to kill the first " Injun" he saw. "But look," he shrieked, "there's one of 'em goin' into Stanley's gate now." With these words he started to run, shouting, "Halt, halt!"' and swinging his revolver frantically as old Panacarre entered the gate and pulled on Stanley's latch string. Stanley rushed out to meet the enraged man and tried to