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

  The others remained seated and Young Warrior was thankful that his attention need not be divided. There was furtiveness about this Kenoma that twitched nostrils. Already a thief, Kenoma could be more. Friend Seeker too would be ready, but if needed, Young Warrior's arrow would be first.

  Near his pouch lay both bow and tomahawk, but Kenoma had no illusions of using them; against a trained warrior, he would have no chance. Within the bag, beside the wampum, lay an iron knife. It was a short blade, but it would be long enough. Reaching in, he placed the knife within the wampum. Hidden by the belt's stiff folds, it could not be seen. Kenoma's hands trembled as he turned, but that could be expected as the ending of a time of long worry.

  He held forth the wampum with one hand, the other open and plainly empty. Straining mightily to wait and not act too soon, Kenoma circled the fire and offered the belt to the waiting Friend Seeker.

  The arrow of Young Warrior held solidly on Kenoma's body, but only the harmless wampum showed. Though he sensed menace, it was not enough to release the arrow, but as Kenoma approached the Seeker, Young Warrior fined his aim.

  Friend Seeker was pleased with his counseling. Only in Kenoma did he feel reluctance to be done with the game. Unsuspecting, he stepped forward to receive the sacred belt of the Iroquois. Eyes averted, Kenoma extended the wampum and Friend Seeker's hand rose to accept it.

  With desperate force Kenoma thrust squarely at the center of Friend Seeker's chest. The wampum crushed against hard muscle and Kenoma felt the blade enter the Seeker's breast. He swelled in triumph and a shriek of victory spasmed his throat. Even the sun seemed halted as his eyes met those of Friend Seeker, but the scorn that burned there shamed him so horribly that no sound came forth.

  In the same instant, a giant's blow struck Kenoma's body, driving away all air and turning him half around. His eyes saw his elbow pinned to his side by the dulled turkey feathers of a war arrow and he wondered almost idly how the arrow's wide point could protrude beneath his other arm, Friend Seeker's hands closed about his throat and, though there seemed little strength in them, they sprawled together beside the fire.

  At Kenoma's thrust Young Warrior released his arrow. Its flight was short and quicker than a hummingbird's, but to Young Warrior it hung forever, and his mind knew its arrival was too late. He did not know what Kenoma had used, but the blow had been cowardly and it had struck home. He flung aside the bow and sprang into the clearing. With terrible clarity he saw Kenoma's body pierced through by his arrow and a stricken Friend Seeker falling with hands clutching Kenoma's throat.

  Astounded and confused, the other Tuscaroras leaped to their feet, instinctively reaching for weapons. Then, a giant demon appeared among them. For the first moment only his terrible hatchets spoke, but then a mindless bellow of purest raging hatred burst from him, and the mighty blows that never missed doubled and tripled in speed and power,

  Helpless as babes, the Tuscarora fought, but the demon swept through them spreading death and dismemberment. A savage stroke removed an arm even as another split a skull, Two broke and ran, flinging aside their weapons in panic and seeking only escape from the monster raging among them.

  Black was the mind of Young Warrior. His tomahawks fell without pause. No battle plan rose to divide him, no awareness touched him beyond the wish to kill and kill and kill. There was no time, no meaning, only the hunger to inflict death on any he could reach.

  When they were down, he stalked madly among them seeking hint of life, prepared to squash it as he might a stray fire coal.

  Nothing lived among the five. Their bodies were slashed and crushed as though a dozen had attacked them. One lay with both arms severed, and another's head hung by a bit of flesh, and another's skull was crushed and re-crushed.

  Slower than it had left, reason returned to the mind of Young Warrior. The rage had taken him but he had no regrets. He turned quickly to the fallen Friend Seeker who lay almost entwined with Kenoma. Both lived and Young Warrior experienced satisfaction.

  As Young Warrior raised him across a knee, Friend Seeker had but a moment. Thick blood had gouted from his mouth and drenched even the handle of the knife imbedded in his chest. For an instant his eyes cleared and his chest heaved to force words from dying lungs. Blood gouted a final time, but Young Warrior heard the message.

  "My son."

  Friend Seeker was gone.

  The tautness of life left him and his weight lay heavy on the leg of his student.

  Young Warrior raised him as easily as he might a child and carried him to the shade of a great tree. Momentarily numbed, he wiped blood from minor wounds inflicted by the Tuscaroras. As the magnitude of his loss reached his mind, the black rage threatened to again overwhelm him. This time he fought it down; now clear thought and cold anger were needed. Two had escaped and the eyes of Kenoma still lived.

  Kenoma lay, unable to stand the pain of movement, That he lived with the horror of the war arrow through his body was terrible and he welcomed the sight of the giant killer closing to give him death and relief from pain that was beginning to chew like a weasel at his very soul.

  The eyes of the killer were death pools. They seethed with hatred so virulent that the sickened spirit of Kenoma recoiled in terror, and realization that easy death would not be his clogged all that remained of coherent thought. Hands mightier than any he had known lifted him from the ground and he tried desperately to die and save himself from what was to come.

  Young Warrior hoisted the body of Friend Seeker's killer with a remorseless strength new to him. With a savage heave he hung it in a tree fork where it wedged with arms and legs dangling. A final time he looked into the eyes of Kenoma and was pleased that they still lived.

  Emotionless as a club, he seized Kenoma's strongest hand and broke it bone by bone until it hung unrecognizable. Choosing a large stone from the fire circle he smashed all of the bones in the feet and legs of Kenoma. Distantly he heard the screams become moans and the moans die to harsh and labored breathing, but he did not care.

  He took the scalp of the living carcass and flung it into the fire. Finally, with a single tomahawk blow, he severed the weaker arm at the elbow and left the remains hanging. He hoped that the spirit of Friend Seeker, so newly on the path to The Great Spirit, could see that he did not travel unavenged and that thought reminded him that two had escaped.

  That he was not thinking clearly came to Young Warrior. Although his acts were decisive, he knew that confusion and hatred wrestled in his mind. But it was not the time to rest. The killing hunger still stalked. There was more to be done before peace and reason could return.

  He hid the weapons of Friend Seeker and placed his own bow and the bloodied wampum with them. Armed only with the tomahawks, he took the trail of the two who had escaped. They had fled almost together but immediately separated. He chose to follow the one who turned south. He ran swiftly without need to search. The Tuscarora had rushed blindly away and had made no attempt to disguise his trail.

  Pina, friend of Kenoma, ran until he fell exhausted. He had circled back, to the great path and fled down it as long as his legs would hold him. Then he had crawled into underbrush and allowed his body to recover and his mind to judge the horror of what had happened.

  He recalled an instant of surprised exultation as Kenoma's knife had struck the Delaware before the unexpected arrow pierced his friend's body. Then the unbelievable terror as the raging demon appeared among them. His friends fell like corn and their blows were futile. He tried to see the demon but could remember only giant size, mind-deadening bellows and tomahawks that flashed like a thousand lightnings. He felt no shame in fleeing and was sure that only wild running had saved him,

  When his strength returned, Pina again moved south on the path. Only a little way further fires glowed in increasing dusk and with vast relief he staggered into the warm familiarity of traveling families.

  They were three lodges and among them were hunters known to him. Moving north, they knew nothing of t
he stolen wampum, and Pina's twisted story told only of demons attacking his party. He talked as he ate and the food and rest took the tremble from his legs, even as the presence of others returned courage to his heart.

  Pina told of a desperate fight and how he too had rained blows on a giant until only he had lived. Even his flight took on clever dimensions until he could believe he actually had hidden his trail with the cunning of the fox. His listeners devoured his tale and hunters gripped weapons, promising themselves that no one would savage their camp.

  The fire was raised higher and the hand of hunters was strengthened by older youths who also stood ready in case a demon appeared. But when he came, their bravery joined the fire smoke and their weapons felt suddenly clumsy and ineffectual. This was not a demon. This was death itself.

  Without difficulty Young Warrior followed the fleeing Tuscarora to the great path. Blind with panic, the man had wasted his strength and Young Warrior knew he would not be far. In failing light he loped steadily along the trail and as darkness closed around him he saw the fire of camped lodges. Seated among the people was a man sweated and worn by fierce effort.

  Silent as drifting fog, Young Warrior approached the fire circle and not until its light fell full upon him was he seen.

  It was Pina's fate to first see the demon materialize from the night. Soaked with sweat, streaked with the blood of many, lacerated by unnoticed cuts and slashes, it loomed as though risen from a place of the dead. Herculean muscles, swelled from effort and pumped with rage, strained the fouled skin with their coiled power. Features black with hatred twisted below hypnotic eyes that flamed like fire coals. Each fist held a tomahawk that appeared small within a mighty grip. Pina gagged on his words and paled unto death as his frozen stare turned others to face death's visitor.

  Men, who moments before had known confidence in their numbers and weapons, felt their hearts quail, for none had faced so powerful and concentrated a hatred.

  Frozen, as a mouse before a snake, Pina saw movement, but his paralyzed senses gave warning too late. The watchers too had no chance to act and though they saw, it was done before realization could appear.

  The throw was long and it passed near a hand of men, but the snap of Young Warrior's wrist was led by a snake-like whip of his body and the tomahawk sped without rise, as though hurled by the mightiest of bows. As in the throws he had shown Friend Seeker, it turned twice in the air. This time it struck with the sound of a splitting melon, bedded solidly above the nose of Pina. For an instant the body remained upright, the eyes bugged from their sockets, then it toppled limply and without life.

  Men howled and raised weapons but a voice colder than winter froze them in place. It burned their souls with its intensity, the words hissing warning, yet thundered like a spirit storm that swept all before it. Knees weakened and throats became dry. Eyes fell and each wished himself far away.

  "I am The Warrior! To my enemies I bring death. Live or die, men of the Tuscarora, you choose now." The hunters shifted uncertainly but none accepted the challenge.

  Stepping closer, the terrible figure spoke and these words eased the fears and added understanding.

  "I am The Warrior. I too am of the Iroquois. My enemies are yours and yours will be mine." He pointed at the dead man.

  "Do not honor he who stole the sacred wampum of the Iroquois. Do not grieve for one who saw the coward's blow that killed Friend Seeker, guardian of the Iroquois gate."

  Without hesitation he strode through them and jerked his tomahawk from the skull of Pina. He grasped the corpse's hair and without apparent effort raised it to his own eye level. He stared into the dead eyes as though making certain no life remained before flinging the body aside and turning again to the Tuscaroras. His voice had not changed, and it grated with raw ferocity.

  "You have heard the words of The Warrior. Carry them to others that they may know that this gate of the Iroquois Nation is still guarded, and that hatchets await any who challenge it."

  He was gone as instantly as he had appeared, and if the body of Pina had not sprawled in death, some would have doubted their senses. Avoiding the body, they hastily gathered their possessions and retreated the way they had come. There they again camped to wait until travelers from the north proved that the trail was safe.

  One still lived, but he could not be tracked in the dark. The Warrior rested in the clearing surrounded by the dead of Kenoma's party. Against the moon he could at times see the hanging body of Kenoma and it helped his concentration as he waited for morning light.

  Tiredness traveled the edges of his consciousness, but he held it away as he kept distant the ache of Friend Seeker's death. Later, both might be recognized, but they must wait until vengeance was complete, No weakening of body or determination would soften that vengeance.

  At first light he drank from a spring and stretched the hundred ways that limbered and toned his body. When rising sun changed the light from silhouette and tracks could be followed, he took the survivor's trail.

  It too began easily, but later the runner attempted to hide it. At first those efforts were crude and were meant only to delay pursuit. Later, craftiness showed and the runner expected to lose any followers. The tricks were not new and few delayed The Warrior. Too many times had he worked through clever schemes to be fooled by a Tuscarora hunter. Guessing ahead, he cut across a valley and picked up the track on a game trail. Soon he found where the runner had slept the night within a sapling grove. The sun had not taken the morning dew and already he was close to his enemy.

  The hunter he tracked was not much. A wiser man would have fled through the night. He might have gone to the Juniata where trails joined or where a canoe could have been taken either up or downstream. Instead, he too circled for the familiarity of the Tuscarora path, and as soon as he was sure, The Warrior headed for it.

  Tired, hungry, weaponless and unsure, the Tuscarora crouched in a thicket that concealed him from the path. He dared not return north, for the Delaware had said that war parties came from there. If he turned south he must pass the place where his friends had died and the demons could be waiting.

  The thought terrorized him. His mind saw the arrow drive through the body of Kenoma and the knife protrude from the Delaware's chest. Thereafter, all was confusion, for he could remember only a single giant warring among them, but his friends had toppled like logs and a severed part had struck him, so he knew there were others. He did not doubt that he alone had survived and he thanked the spirits that had lent wings to his moccasins. He had hidden his trail with cleverness and had no fear of being followed. What to do next was his greatest problem.

  When the rabbit had reached the Tuscarora path he had slowed to a walk and there was uncertainty in his stride. The Warrior judged that he would stop to rest while deciding where to go. The runner's attempts to hide his passing had shown that he believed himself clever. Therefore, he would probably go along the trail a little before doubling through the woods to watch his backtrail from hiding. Which side of the path would he choose? The Warrior expected it would be the far side, where he would feel a little more removed from the carnage in the clearing and where the crosswind would blow his scent away from anyone on the trail.

  The Warrior chose the same side and began to parallel the path deeper into the forest than a watcher might choose. Only a little way he detected unnatural darkness behind a thicket, and shortly, careless movement identified the watcher. With drawn tomahawk The Warrior stepped softly closer.

  With thoughts adrift and attention on the path, the Tuscarora heard nothing. The Warrior's hatchet swung in a shallow arc against the side of his head and he toppled without knowing.

  ++++

  Patiently The Warrior waited until the Tuscarora wakened. The flat of the tomahawk had torn loose a large flap of scalp and it had bled, but such wounds were survived and there was use for this last of Kenoma's band.

  He let awareness return to the man's features and saw both fear and surprise at being ali
ve enter them. Then he hit the Tuscarora's face with clenched knuckles and felt the nose collapse beneath the blow. When the battered features again showed awareness he gripped the man's hair and turned his face so that their eyes were locked. Then he told the Tuscarora how it would be.

  At the massacre clearing, the lone survivor was allowed to view the remains of his companions. Only one was not present and he was told where that body lay. He was also encouraged to remember so that he could describe with accuracy each detail, important or small. He was reminded that his life depended on it.

  The Warrior gently wrapped the body of Friend Seeker in robes and placed it between two poles. At his signal, the Tuscarora gripped the poles and turned toward the path that crossed Tuscarora Mountain.

  The climb was exhausting but he was allowed rests and given food by the one called The Warrior. If his captor ate, the survivor did not see it. Instead, he paced like a panther. Except where sweat had thinned it, the black blood of battle stained him. His cinder-black eyes lacked expression, but the muscles that writhed like serpents spoke of suppressed rage and churned the Tuscarora's insides with unspeakable fears. That one could so easily kill them all became clearer, as he judged his captor's size and strength, and he could understand why in the beginning dusk The Warrior had seemed a demon. Even in sunlight, the sight of him turned flesh cold and blood ran turgid.

  To the top of the mountain the Tuscarora dragged the poles bearing Friend Seeker. At the summit he collapsed, unable to go further. The Warrior waited with imperturbable patience until his breathing slowed and he had the strength to stand. Then a great hand propelled his unresisting body to a long fallen log, onto which he was again allowed to rest.

  When The Warrior spoke he had the Tuscarora's full attention. His words were curt and he gestured with a stained tomahawk to drive home his meaning.