The Warrior (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3: Age 5

  Chapter 4: Age 11

  Chapter 5: Age 12

  Chapter 6: Age 12

  Chapter 7: Age 13

  Chapter 8: Age 17

  Chapter 9: Age 18

  Chapter 10: Age 18

  Chapter 11: Age 18

  Chapter 12: Age 19

  Chapter 13: Age 21

  Chapter 14: Age 21

  Chapter 15: Age 26

  Chapter 16: Age 27

  Chapter 17: Age 28

  Chapter 18: Age 35

  Chapter 19: Age 36

  Chapter 20: Age 36

  Chapter 21 Age 39

  Chapter 22: Age 40

  Chapter 23: Age 41

  Chapter 24: Age 41

  Chapter 25: Age 42

  About Roy Chandler

  Books by Roy Chandler

  Publication History

  Copyright © 1985 and 2012 by Katherine R. Chandler.

  All rights reserved.

  ebook Edition: 2012

  Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher

  St. Mary's City, MD

  Hardback Edition: 1985

  Bacon &Freeman, Publisher

  Orwigsburg, Pennsylvania

  Although many of the incidents included in this volume are historically accurate, this is a work of fiction.

  The characters in this book and the situations depicted are the author's creations.

  They do not and did not exist or happen.

  TO THE MEMORY OF ROY STANLEY FREEMAN

  Recently my father said, "I find a lot of Uncle Roy in your writing." Little could have pleased me more. I am named after my great-uncle and to him I owe things that could never be repaid.

  Roy Freeman was of a family whose father died young. When fourteen years old, he entered the shoe factories to support his mother, four brothers, and a sister. In later years he worked as a clerk in a hardware store. He stayed in that capacity until seventy-eight years of age and died in 1957 at eighty-three. He never married.

  A prosaic life, you might say, and it was—that of a hardworking Yankee who believed that you gave at least a dollar's labor for a dollar's pay, that you were 100% honest, and that you always put away what you could for a rainy day.

  Those attributes one can measure, but on what scale can you rate the man who sat with his sickly grandnephew and created "Indian stories" that let the child's imagination soar and live mighty adventures beyond the asthmatic body?

  This was the uncle who hiked his tiny namesake into the "primeval forests" of Massachusetts, to inevitably become lost and have to build a fire to bake magically produced potatoes. Fortunately, as the child wearied, it was discovered that the party (we were often scouting for hostiles) had circled and was about one hundred yards behind the house. There was a profusion of lean-tos, sassafras bows and arrows, cat-o'-nine tail spears and torches, and visits to old hobo camps (this was 1930 and thereabout). We sang the Civil War marching songs a lot and whistled the rest of the time. He took the child, later the youth, and finally the young man along on the hardware delivery truck to visit old soldiers, local characters, and true friends. At age eighty-two he made his only airplane flight from the town in which he was born to Fort Riley, Kansas and returned via Jaguar sports car with his U.S. Army First Sergeant great-nephew. Unfortunately, these things do not adequately describe Roy Freeman's almost unique ability to capture the heart and mind of a youngster. It will have to suffice to say that he was cherished by all, old through young, without exception,

  My Uncle Roy did one other wonderful thing. He paid my way through Carson Long Military Academy! Those four years were glorious for me and in many ways they determined my direction in life. He gave his life savings to help me become the soldier I so powerfully longed to be—and that was not a small thing.

  If my imagination is vivid, if my love for the early days of our nation is profound, if my morals are sound and my patriotism strong, I owe much of it to Roy Freeman.

  He is buried in Colebrook Cemetery, Whitman, Massachusetts among those he loved and who loved him. If that were not so, I would bring him to New Bloomfield to share my lot for whatever eternity offers us.

  I like to think that he knows of these writings and, as I join the words and develop the themes, I am aware of how much he would have liked the result. My books are usually his kind of tales and that makes me certain that I write for the sort of people he (and I) would care about. What more could I ask?

  They say that as long as one person remembers, a man still lives. It is a good thought and I would like the world to know that I remember and still miss my uncle and my friend, Roy S. Freeman.

  Roy Freeman Chandler

  Introduction

  Chronologically, THE WARRIOR is the second book within the time frame of my Perry County series. It is the sequel to FRIEND SEEKER. Both are stories about Native Americans; whites are barely in it.

  I have used current place names because they make the geography intelligible. Terms such as miles, years, and months are used for clarity, although I have tried to keep them at a minimum.

  As The Warrior is being presented eleven years after his appearance in ARROWMAKER, readers of this series will be familiar with his presence. Those who are new to the series can be assured that understanding The Warrior's place in things will be appreciated as they encounter him in other books I have written.

  Roy F. Chandler

  In the cockpit of Charles Chiodi

  1985

  Chapter 1

  From the brush tangle, the Susquehannock could study the single lodge without detection. Not that he feared discovery; he had killed the hunter along the river and a small lodge would have only one defender.

  When their flight had begun, he had as usual smeared his body and features with clay. His companions had smirked and nudged each other as war markings vanished and his stiffened hair roach lost its shape and coloration. He had ignored their disparagement, knowing that their pride in bright war colors could only aid his own survival. If their enemy found them, they, not he, would attract the clubs and hatchets. The others were of different tribes, and he had been the only Susquehannock among them. But his ferocity in battle was known and, despite his madness, he had been welcomed. Now, long running had sweat-streaked the clay, further disguising his shape, so that when unmoving, only his eyes could betray him.

  It was the woman of the lodge who delayed his escape, but he counted pursuit as far outdistanced and knew he had time to spare. The hunter he had held beneath the river water had been a Delaware but he recognized the woman as a Seneca. Only rarely did a woman of the Iroquois Nations marry beyond that powerful confederacy and the Susquehannock marveled that a female of such proportions had not been claimed by her own people.

  The squaw stood tall enough to be a Susquehannock and must have towered two hands above her man. Full-breasted and broad-shouldered, she moved at her work with spring and vigor worthy of a young warrior. She hummed as she readied a noon meal and shot occasional glances toward the river path as though expecting her hunter's immediate return. The Susquehannock's lips curled at that expectation, and he decided to leave yet another insult to the Iroquois who had destroyed his people and scattered the few survivors.

  Once he had been called Breaks Spear for his strength in war, but those with whom he now traveled knew him only as Mud Dauber, a name he had also earned.

  Their band had raided deep within the lands of the Iroquois and had seized goods of value. His own pack of furs and a
n iron kettle lay in the woods behind him. The kettle would gain him shelter for many moons and the furs would be traded to the white skins for things he desired.

  Entering the lands of the Iroquois was not difficult; the band traveled with caution and remained undetected, but once alerted, the Iroquois could be like aroused ants and escaping their scouts and war parties then demanded swift and cunning withdrawal,

  He flowed from cover without sound and swept the woman from her place with a grip beyond breaking. For a long instant she lay unresisting as he carried her through the lodge entrance. Then astonishment passed and her strong body writhed and her fingers clawed with such fury that he flung her away to escape injury.

  The squaw sprawled awkwardly on the packed earth floor, but undefeated, she sprang in a charge that surprised him with its ferocity. Her voice rose in an enraged shriek intended to warn her hunter and her fingers again became talons that clawed for his eyes, but surprise was not enough and the dead could not hear. He fended her away with one hand and clubbed a stunning blow along her head. Resistance faltered and he struck again, heavy blows that beat her senses and drained her will. Her knees sagged and he grasped her heavy braid, wrenching her head until he could look into her face. Intending to speak, he hesitated, deterred by the hatred glaring from the woman's eyes and intrigued by the resistance boiling from her very soul.

  Instantly the squaw spat in his face and renewed her efforts to savage him with driving knees and raking fingers. His own patience exploded; he struck with power; and as the squaw slumped nearly senseless he tore her single garment away and fell upon her dazed and unresisting form.

  When he had gone, the woman gained her feet and recovered her torn garment. Knowing what she would find, she staggered to the fishing place. Her hunter's net and spear lay abandoned; only a smear of blood marked where his body had been dragged into the uncaring water. The woman stifled her wail and sank to the earth, her body wracked by silent weeping and irreconcilable loss.

  The pursuing warriors came late the following day but the track of the Susquehannock was cold and they lost it beyond the Cove Mountain. For the woman, the Iroquois had sympathy, but she refused their offers of assistance and announced only that her lodge would remain where her man had placed it. The squaw's eyes glittered unnaturally, making the warriors uneasy, and they were eager to move on. Near the Juniata, a warrior of the Delaware had his place and the Iroquois leader would report the woman's condition so that some protection might be given.

  The party vanished into the forest and the woman resumed her activities so that one unknowing would have believed the lodge at peace. As before, she hummed as she labored, but in time a listener would have detected a peculiar monotony to the rhythm that roused hackles as might a rattlesnake's warning.

  In the wet month of spring, the son of the Susquehannock was born in the lodge at the fishing place. Alone the squaw suffered her agonies and severed the umbilical with a sharp mussel shell. She washed the infant in the chill river and enfolded the tiny body within her robe as it nuzzled determinedly at a flowing breast. Rarely did her humming cease and only when smiling upon her son did the woman's eyes lose their bitter and merciless glitter.

  ++++

  The warrior Friend Seeker visited regularly at the woman's lodge. The squaw's madness was plain, and to the Seeker she spoke of the giant Susquehannock with a consuming hatred that destroyed all that she might have been. To others she spoke little, barely acknowledging their gifts of food or garments. In passing, many left something with the woman. It was recognized that The Great Spirit touched some with madness and they were to be treated with consideration lest the affliction prove contagious or strange spells be cast over them.

  Friend Seeker had no fear of spells, and he understood the woman's wish to live as she did. He respected her certainty that, if he lived, the Susquehannock would come again. Intrigued, he visited with some regularity to see how she fared.

  Because of this, the woman chose Friend Seeker to fulfill her only request. The wish was for a knife whose touch on point or edges could draw blood. A knife with enough length to drive deep and release life from whatever it struck.

  In his youth, the Seeker had possessed such a knife. A gift from the warrior Oak Neck, the knife had served him well, but he had left it in the belly of a Pistecataway. Another could be made, and as the woman's hunger for it was powerful, he shaped such a knife in soft wood and laid it before E'shan, the arrowpoint maker.

  The Seeker found an arrowmaker's tasks peculiar and not to his liking. To chip endlessly at flint blanks, only to trade the finished points for other goods, seemed to the Delaware warrior a narrow existence. The haggling over price was equally distasteful, and he was prone to accept E'shan's first quote with open disdain, which invariably caused equally disdainful snickering from the pointmaker!

  Yet he, as all others, came to the Little Buffalo to trade beneath the oak. E'shan's points were the best. So it would be with the woman's knife. E'shan would chip and shape until it was right, because if his pleasure was in haggling, his pride lay in the quality of his points.

  The Seeker had delivered the knife during the child's first months and had not seen it again. He doubted the squaw's ability to reach the Susquehannock if he returned, but he knew with certainty that the woman would try.

  ++++

  The Susquehannock called Mud Dauber was known. His tribe had been a giant people who towered above others. With huge physical strength, they had dominated lengths of the river called after them and had been fearsome and brave in battle. The gathering of the five tribes of the Iroquois Confederacy had shattered the Susquehannocks, destroying their fortified villages and scattering their few survivors.

  Brutal, cunning and without mercy, Mud Dauber strode with other scavengers stinging the borders of Iroquois lands before escaping to safety beyond reach of Iroquois power. The Iroquois and lone warriors like the Delaware, Friend Seeker, waited their chance. If the Dauber misjudged, they would be on him with vengeance and send his spirit to join those of his departed uncles.

  And so the Susquehannock might again choose the river to flee along. If he did, would he remember the lodge at the fishing place? The Seneca woman believed he would, and Friend Seeker resolved to remember her belief. If in pursuit, he too would head directly for the fishing place in hope of finding Mud Dauber and ending his forays.

  Among her own people her size had intimidated potential suitors. Proud Seneca hunters and warriors could appreciate her strength in carrying or the shapeliness of hip and thigh, but to be dwarfed by her height and at least matched in breadth of shoulders turned their romancing to others. The Delaware hunter's offerings of hides and beaded wampum had satisfied her mother and joined her life with his. The Delaware's wanderings became hers, and his wish to live beyond tribal boundaries became also her way. The lodge at the fishing place had not been permanent, but with the death of her man, the woman knew it would be hers until vengeance upon the Susquehannock was complete. She did not plan beyond that reckoning.

  If he lived, he would return. She recognized it in the hunger of his hands and his insistence in repeating his true name until he could believe she would remember. Breaks Spear—she would remember and use it to her advantage.

  Few were the woman's weapons, but those she polished with care and perseverance. If visitors believed she took pride in appearance, it did not matter. She walked with grace and tightened her long braids to lure the Susquehannock. When he came he must again hunger for her. The knife required no care. Its flint edges were finely chipped and its point rivaled the sharpest thorn. At night, when the boy slept, she fondled the blade imagining the first thrust she would make and the many thereafter.

  ++++

  Two winters had passed since he had last followed the river of his people and the Mud Dauber felt safe in choosing that route. This time he ran without pack to slow him. They had been discovered, and only after wild fighting had he broken free and fled alone across ridges and
down the valleys. Safety lay beyond the Susquehanna's passage through the mountain called Kittatinny. There ended the lands of the Iroquois and, although they might pursue, none could head him off.

  With confidence, he crossed the Juniata and took the trail bordering the Susquehanna's west bank. Since these were empty lands, used only for hunting, they supported no Iroquois villages or warrior bands, and only the barest of chance could place an enemy before him.

  In the clear waters of Little Juniata Creek he washed away the mud that had helped conceal him and continued at a more measured pace that conserved energy and allowed his thoughts to turn from pursuers long outdistanced. That the Seneca woman remained at the fishing place he knew. Word of her had come because he had asked. It was hinted that the woman's mind had turned, but The Dauber chose other reasoning. He recalled the woman's size that matched his own, and his imagination changed the dazed glare of anguished hatred into one of hunger and longing. That she waited for his return fed his ego and smothered tiny warnings that he should seek safety and find the woman at a safer time.

  He slipped warily across Sherman's Creek and approached the lodge site with caution. He saw her from the cover of the same thicket and again marveled at the Seneca's size and womanly grace. For a moment, he considered taking her with him to the bay country, but the woman would need her child and they would slow him, Many sought his favor, and in the end he would abandon one for many. He put the plan from his mind.

  This time he stood forth, swelling his chest and planting his feet in a proud and powerful stance. With satisfaction he saw the woman's startled response and immediate recovery. She too posed with arrogant grace and her lips thinned in a smile he thought filled with promise. Her voice, thick with emotion, spoke his proper name, "Welcome, Breaks Spear. I have long waited your return."