Friend Seeker (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Read online

  Table of Contents

  FOREWORD

  INTRODUCTION

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About Roy Chandler

  Books by Roy Chandler

  © 1981 and 2012 Roy F. Chandler and Katherine R. Chandler.

  All rights reserved

  Publication History

  ebook: 2012

  Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher

  St Mary's City, Maryland

  First Printing: 1981

  Bacon and Freeman Publishers

  Deer Lake, Pennsylvania 17961

  This is a work of fiction. None of the characters existed. None of the characters represent any persons living or dead. All characters and incidents depicted herein were created from the author's mind. None actually occurred.

  This book is for:

  ARTHUR B. TROUP

  My closest personal friend.

  With appreciation for the best of advice,

  support, and encouragement.

  "The rock-ribbed hills; the deep, silent trout streams; soaring fields of yellow grain; tossing tops of virgin pines; century old oaks; billions of silent, soul-refreshing, storytelling stars; the scent of pine woods—all these teach greater lessons than any books contain, and they supply the inspirations through which men become great."

  The Color of Life is Red

  Edward Lee Holman

  FOREWORD

  In the world created by Roy Chandler, heroes are fashioned to his particular needs. Brook, stream, creek, river, the flow of cascading water has ever been a metaphor for the passage of time. Chandler sets his plots at cross currents, glides easily from shore to shore, ignoring the tidal drift. He often puts future before past, death before birth, departure before arrival. His work has been so steady that readers of his Perry County novels—and other novels—are often here before they are there. And the most faithful are now owners of a two-foot shelf of handsome black, gold embossed volumes that confine Rocky's surging histories.

  His heroes are all fashioned for noble causes. None of them quiver with remorse when violent action is needed; none shirks the duties of perfecting man as an equalizer in aborting the evils of the world. All prepare vigorously for what is to come. They are brothers under the skin, complex sometimes but predictable in their common seeking of justice and punishment for the detractors of human hopes.

  Now comes Friend Seeker, the epitome of what Chandler holds as the most self-redeeming traits in a hero, which translates into a regular man. In the Indian world of America, Chandler has reached his special métier. His Indians are real—have life breathed into them by an understanding reporter. They are touched with fire and by the symbolisms of religion that serve as anchors for the reality of the harsh wilderness. And here, too, the author intertwines past, future, and the now, so easily the reader can follow his plots with credibility.

  In the Brandywine River Museum at Chadds Ford are two paintings by N. C. Wyeth, who reached early fame as an illustrator of such classics as Treasure Island. Amazing to me is how the great artist captured the essence of Roy Chandler in 1907 when he did a cover for Outdoor Magazine entitled "The Silent Burial." It is one of a series he called "The Indian in his solitude." It fits all the metaphors of streams and time I mentioned above. Here the warrior, deep in the forest by a depthless pool, pauses to contemplate the terrible obstacles before him. He is probably a Delaware (it came to me), a brother of Friend Seeker, and stranger still, in his rugged face reflects the craggy visage I associate with Rocky himself. The Friend Seeker rests momentarily before placing his worn moccasins upon the hazardous trail; Rocky had finished his latest book, now probes the black depth of the pool to envision another. Past, present, future, how they come unbound, shift, intensify.

  Friend Seeker is the earliest of Chandler's warriors, but is closest in spirit to our times because he is a Delaware, of the tribe that sought use of intelligence to overcome problems; the nation that leaned heavily upon the overpowering Iroquois to protect its visions. And that is the instillation of the Chandler-mystique—the forcing of steel within the fibre of his thinking men.

  This is a book you can safely give to a youngster, confident the values embodied within are those Americans need cherish. But, first, read it yourself, to rediscover the basics of man's eternal jousting with his fate.

  Richard A. Swank

  INTRODUCTION

  As my Perry County writings have become better known, unexpected sources of information have been made available to me by individuals who do not intend to publish but possess material about our county's earlier times. FRIEND SEEKER is based on such an account transcribed in 1823. The writer recorded old stories told by his grandfather who was a full-blooded Seneca. The grandfather's tales were rarely of his own experiences but were traditional (or honored) stories of even earlier times.

  From this remarkable document, I extracted the story line for FRIEND SEEKER and details of warrior training, attitudes and practices. Particulars such as the confusing origins of the Indian village at Cisna Run were clarified by this manuscript as well as the recognition of the amazing distances so regularly traversed by Indians whether hunting or making war. Though fiction, FRIEND SEEKER is based on pretty solid stuff.

  As usual I have chosen to use current, recognizable place names. If Sherman's Creek, for example, rings false to Indian times, so be it. Using long-dead meaningless names would only leave the reader wondering where we were. These volumes are intended to inform our people about our valleys and the happenings in them. Recognizing the geography surely helps.

  Describing distances and times in a suitable manner also presents difficulties to the writer. One can speak of "a hand of arrow flights" or "a few strides" but it can become awkward, so I have used "miles" where convenient and "days" where necessary. The reader will understand.

  Friend Seeker has the earliest time frame of any volume in this Perry County series. In that respect, it might be considered the first book of the series. I include this earliest of stories to bring a more complete understanding of how our country changed from wilderness to civilization. To have ignored the Indians' existence before the white man's impact would have left the series incomplete.

  Indian ways are little understood at best and FRIEND SEEKER will increase our appreciation of a people and a life style gone forever.

  Roy Chandler

  at The Maples

  1981

  THE YOUTHS

  . . . "There are just two kinds of people . . .

  either master or be mastered."

  The Color of Life is Red

  Edward Lee Holman

  Chapter 1

  Where the Buffalo Creek joined the darker flow of the Juniata River, the lodges had been raised in their usual places. Families had arrived from many camps and their pleasure at being together was apparent in the clamor of romping bands of children and the animated chatter of women rebuilding winter-damaged fish and eel traps. Men's deeper tones joined village sounds as they discussed the hunting or the movement of the Tuscarora tribe to become one with the Iroquois Nations.

  The times were portento
us, with whites building more villages on the shores of the salt seas and their guns and powder granting power to some tribes while ensuring defeat and uprooting to others. French whites appeared from the north seeking trade in beaver, mink, and otter along every waterway, and English whites offered similar trade at their saltwater villages. Few guns reached the scattered Delaware but iron knives were owned and one lodge on the Buffalo Creek displayed an iron kettle that turned every squaw envious.

  Up the Buffalo, safely beyond the pumpkin and squash plantings and clear of the village sounds, where water pooled beneath a high overhanging ledge, the dominant youths had established their sanctuary. A year earlier these same youths had been barred from this favored place, but this season they were the strong, and in the natural course of things they denied swimming and lolling rights to those of lesser age.

  There were only four boys—almost men—grown nearly to full height but still lean with the whippiness of hickory saplings. Lacking adult strength, they substituted agility and quickness during their continual grapplings and contests for leadership and demonstrations of courage.

  They had already clambered to the tallest shoots of their favorite climbing tree, where they had hung like monstrous fruit above the surrounding forest. The best stones had been skipped, and with patience lagging far behind energy, they became quickly bored and constantly sought new challenges.

  By noon they slouched a trifle disconsolate, having used up the easy challenges of stunning belly flops from the ledge or holding each other under water until lungs threatened to burst.

  Among themselves, the four had adopted names of great power. Squash called himself Panther; Little Boy chose Tall Spear; and Walking Son knew himself as Late Star. The Twig of course picked Eagle, for he believed himself destined for great things. These were secret names, for they had not yet earned special names, and if they had known, the lodges would have laughed them away.

  Having already reviewed their secret calls and special signs (to be exchanged at every opportunity when around outsiders), the Eagle's suggestion to move upstream to clearer water gained immediate acceptance. As suggestor, Eagle led along the creek trail at a rapid trot followed by Late Star, Panther, and finally Tall Spear.

  None of the pools they tested seemed quite right and they loped or rushed as their spirits willed to the next likely spot. A bit smaller and slower than the others, Tall Spear tended to lag and arrive about the time his friends were ready to start for the next bend or pool.

  Lagging saved him, for his appearance on the trail surprised the strange warriors, and he escaped running wildly back the way he had come.

  Eagle had been telling how good the next pool was and the scouting warriors probably heard him. From hiding along the path they pounced like true eagles, catching the youths unaware and trapping them neatly.

  Last of the three, Squash (never again to call himself Panther), felt himself grasped by a strangely painted warrior who loomed as large as the Buffalo Mountain. Eagle and Late Star struggled in other hands as with fear-fueled strength he struggled to escape. Grunting with annoyance the warrior gathered-in the wiry youth, pinning his arms and trapping his flailing legs.

  The Squash heard Eagle's squall of triumph and saw the Eagle loose and running. Encouraged, he sank his teeth deeply into his captor's forearm, but even as he fought a thrown club struck the fleeing Eagle to the ground.

  With a grunt of pained anger his own captor tore his arm from Squash's teeth, and holding him with one brawny arm, sledged an open-handed blow alongside his head that thundered through the boy's skull and set his ear on fire. A second hammering blow dazed his senses and turned his own blows into empty wavings. Still angered, the warrior lifted Squash's half-resisting body and hurled him into a handy thorn thicket where he hung, entrapped and helpless.

  Punctured and clutched by countless stringy briars, Squash lay imprisoned, unable to move without sinking deeper into the thorns. He could see Late Star still struggling as a warrior held him at arm's length by the hair while another slapped him into submission. The sharp splats of the blows claimed attention until a warrior bending above Eagle's unmoving body gestured and called sharply.

  Squash's captor answered with a grunt and tore his youth free of the briar patch. Jagged thorns released Squash reluctantly, leaving his body, arms, and legs striped and punctured with blood oozing. He gritted his teeth, allowing no sounds, but he moved without resistance as his captor directed.

  Eagle was dead, his skull crushed by the stone-headed club. Hatred and nausea fought for dominance in Squash as he and Late Star were bumped roughly together. He felt Star's body stiffen in outrage and that gave courage to his own heart. His stomach settled and for the first time since the surprise attack his mind began to reason.

  The warriors were strange with unfamiliar paint and weapons of different pattern. Each wore a lock of hair knotted above their left ear and Squash's captor boasted a vermilion hawk's foot painted on a shoulder blade. Through pain and fear Squash studied them closely, absorbing details of dress or movement and committing all to his memory, just as he knew Late Star would be doing.

  There was disagreement among the warriors with much gesturing toward Eagle's body and the direction Little Boy had fled. The language was unintelligible with only a few recognizable words, but it was apparent the warriors were worried by Little Boy's escape.

  "Our father's arrows will soon be among these woods rats, Late Star." Squash's words were to bolster his own hopes as much as Star's, but he felt his friend's spine stiffen against his.

  Squash's captor turned with deliberate slowness, settling a gaze as coldly opaque as winter ice on the speaker. Menace rose almost visibly about the man and Squash felt his knees weaken and prayed it did not show. As emotionless as death the warrior cuffed Squash's mouth with a backhanded blow that again dimmed his vision and split his lips both inside and out. He stayed upright, swaying against Late Star, and attempted to appear defiant, but he spoke no more.

  The four warriors reached agreement. They jerked their captives apart and bound them separately with rawhide strips, the bindings were clever and through his agonies the Squash determined to remember them. Wrists and thumbs were lashed together in front and elbows were pinned against their bodies with a strip across the back. Finally, a length of hide between the legs with ends attached to wrists and elbow ties prevented the captive from reaching his bonds with his teeth but allowed the arms to be carried in a position to aid running.

  A pair of warriors knelt by the Eagle and fingered his hair speaking to Squash's captor. Angrily the man Squash now thought of as Hawk Foot gestured toward a thick patch of brush and the warriors without further discussion seized Eagle's body and hurled it from sight deep within the thicket.

  Late Star and Squash were pushed into motion and then into a run along the trail. Two warriors led while the third and Hawk Foot trailed. Star deliberately slowed, pretending inability to keep pace, but the third warrior loped ahead and using an arrow shaft slashed Star into greater speed.

  Where the trail smoothed their pace increased, easing only a little for rougher footing. Running without free arm movement proved increasingly awkward and sweat broke as legs tired rapidly. On large stones, Squash fell, landing hard. Unable to break his fall or roll safely, he sprawled, again bruised and scraped, willing to give up and just lay there, but an impatient moccasin prodded him upright and back into the exhausting run.

  Further on, the path led through a vast field of cane. A great fire had burned away the forest and thick shoots of cane had sprouted in the damp ground. Higher than a man, the cane grew close, leaning and crossing until it became an almost impenetrable maze. In other summers they had played within the cane, slipping low where their sinuous bodies could pass more easily and chopping out secret places locatable only by hidden markings.

  Heat lay heavy within the cane and mosquitoes rose in clouds from the soggy ground. The warriors cursed and flailed at the biting insects, but Star and Sq
uash could only labor on.

  Without warning, quick as a darting snake, Late Star was gone. Through a tiny opening in the cane he dove with only the warrior behind seeing him go. The warrior shouted and crashed off the trail in pursuit. The leading warriors pulled up in bewilderment and Hawk Foot bellowed angrily from behind.

  Squash saw his own opening and slipped into it, bending low and once inside dropping to his knees. He heard Hawk Foot hit the cane with a rush and then half rebound as the cane resisted. Frantically, Squash twisted and writhed his way through, choosing the easiest openings regardless of where they led.

  Despite his efforts, he kept his ears tuned to Hawk Foot's sounds, Judging their direction and progress. Suddenly, the sounds ceased and Squash froze as he was. Hawk Foot was listening. With only yards between them Squash fought to still his breathing, resting his head on the ground and sucking long, careful breaths. His legs quivered with tiredness and tension, and hordes of mosquitoes, attracted by his blood-smeared body, droned and settled.

  Across the path cane rattled and crashed. The warriors occasionally spoke and more clattering followed. Then a sudden shout and furious passages through the cane told of Star's discovery. The warriors soon called their victory and within moments dragged the wretched Late Star back onto the trail.

  The Squash waited, but despite his companions' calling, Hawk Foot remained silent. There were footsteps on the trail and turning his head Squash was horrified to see moccasins pass within a body length. In his desperate scrambling, he had nearly returned to the path. Hawk Foot had worked deeper into the cane than had he.

  Hawk Foot then changed his plan. He broke his way from the cane not far from Squash's still form. His orders were harsh and Squash wished dearly that he could understand their meaning. As best he could judge. Hawk Foot guarded Star while the others entered the cane. The three swept the wild field in long traverses, but moved ever further from Squash's position near the trail. When they were furthest away he eased his cramped body as gently as if handling eggs and attempted to sink into the soft ground supporting the cane.