Cradle of Vengeance

1843, and Ethan Carver lived in a cabin near the Carson River, a mile from the water. He was a hunter and a trapper, quiet and sharp-eyed, with the endurance of a man who knew the wilderness well. For years, he lived alone, save for his dog. One winter, visiting a nearby Paiute Village, he met a girl. Her name was Pamahas, and she had a way of smiling that made Carver forget his solitude. He visited her camp often, bringing gifts for her father, and in time, she became his wife. The tribe performed the marriage, and he brought her back to his cabin. On the day of the wedding, a man from her tribe, a jealous fool who had wanted Pamahas for himself, came at Carver with a knife. The dog leaped at the man before the blade struck. Carver beat the attacker senseless, driving him from the cabin as the onlookers laughed at his disgrace. Carver and Pamahas built a life together. In time, there was a baby. The three lived simply in the cabin, the dog ever watchful. One evening, Carver noticed the grass near his house bent in a way that spoke of footsteps, not his own. He muttered something about a hunter passing by and thought no more of it. A few days later, returning at dusk, he found the fresh marks again. The trail led to his window, then back into the woods. That evening, he stumbled on the body of his dog. It lay stiff near the door, throat cut, blood soaking the earth. Carver burst into the cabin and called for Pamahas. She hushed him with a whisper, her voice low. “You’ll wake the child.” She sat on the hearth, her dress torn and her face streaked with blood and soot. In her arms, she cradled the baby, its body limp, its dress dark with blood. The head of the child lay on the floor beside her. She rocked back and forth, crooning softly, her glassy eyes fixed on the fire. Carver stood frozen, his breath heavy in the silence. When he found words, Pamahas only whispered again, “Hush, you’ll wake him.” The night crawled by, and when morning came, Pamahas’s strength waned. By the second night, she lay on a bed of skins, her arms empty. For a brief moment, her senses returned, and she told Carver what had happened. The jealous man had come back, knife in hand. He killed the dog, struck her down, and tore the baby from its bed. With a slash of his blade, he took the child’s life and threw its body into her lap. “This is my revenge,” he had said. “I am satisfied.” Pamahas died before dawn. He did not cry. He did not shout. He saddled his horse and rode west to the Paiute village. There, he told the tribe what had happened and demanded the man responsible. The elders gave him up. Carver bound the man with rawhide, tying his arms to his sides. He threw a noose around the man’s neck and tied the other end to his saddle. Then he rode through the night, the man stumbling behind him. At the cabin, Carver worked in silence. He cut willow branches and wove a cradle-like frame. Into it, he strapped the man, tying him tight so he could not move. Then he brought Pamahas’s and the baby’s bodies from the cabin and laid them atop the man, face down, their weight pressing against him. The murderer groaned, but Carver said nothing. He tied the two bodies together until they were one mass. Carver stood near the empty cabin for a time before setting fire to it. Then he took his rifle, mounted his horse, and rode away.