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

Before rising, he allowed his body to relax and felt the weight of muscle that in rest became a burden. A scar long turned white ran across a thick forearm, and he sought memory of the combat that caused it. The enemy had held an iron knife and it had cut as he wrenched the arm from its socket; that he remembered but he had forgotten the rest. Did it matter? It was a wound of honor and it was borne without notice, but if there was a seer among the Chippewa, could his anger come from some forgotten fighting?

  The warrior straightened, arching the fullness of his chest, and rose without effort. Before turning away he raised a palm to the Seeker's place and let his memory touch on their time together. He wished Friend Seeker could guide him as The Sky Father did, for his words would be familiar and more clear. Perhaps they would come in time, but for now he knew his next step, and with certainty he turned down the mountain's north slope.

  In the lodge of Den Bear, along the Aughwick creek, rested a Chippewa whose body slowly mended. He had fought with his mind as well as his weapons, and though he had seen the face of death his spirit had been strong. He would live to again see his people.

  The Chippewa was called Swift Walker, and when the lodge entrance darkened with the giant body of The Warrior his throat closed and fear gripped his belly. The ease with which the Iroquois had parried his blows and the double impact of tomahawks on his shoulders would forever live with him. The blows had broken bones and his arms had fallen useless as sticks. He had held high his chin and matched The Warrior's cold malevolence with defiance. There had been no softening of the fighter's gaze, but he had turned away and later squaws had brought him to shelter and bound his arms to his sides to aid healing. For three nights they held him erect to help his breathing, and for many days fed and saw to his simpler needs. Now, even as he began moving his arms without shooting pain The Iroquois returned, and the heart of Swift Walker quailed.

  Unremarked, the squaws fled, and Swift Walker faced alone the one who had crushed him. Menace surrounded the Iroquois. It was one with the fire eyes and contrasting paint. Violence enveloped the senses, and death seemed to draw closer. Directly before him The Warrior sank into cross-legged sitting. Even that common act demonstrated a startling control as the awesome body lowered as smoothly as a maiden's gesture and touched as lightly as a falling feather. Despite his fears, the Chippewa was impressed.

  Long their eyes held, and Swift Walker could feel his heart's pound jarring his wounds. Without feeling, the bitter eyes left his to study the healed scars of the tomahawk strikes and the uneven set of the broken bones.

  Then The Warrior's terrible hands rose and with relief the Chippewa saw them begin the common turnings of hand talk. The hands asked a single question and fell silent.

  "Why did you come against me?"

  With some pain that he hoped remained hidden—Swift Walker positioned his own hands and formed an answer.

  "To kill The Warrior, called also The Iroquois." He wished there were other words, but this was a thing of honor.

  "Why did you wish to kill The Warrior?"

  For the first time there was a human quality in the words. Swift Walker appreciated the curiosity that prompted them but was surprised that the fighter did not know the reasons. Had none before spoken? Perhaps, like himself, there had been no time. If this were so, then he, Swift Walker, would explain the importance of the combat and the honor held for him who succeeded. He wished that he could use his tongue, for the hand words were awkward and he was little skilled with them.

  "Within our nation, one seer of visions stands above others. He has foretold many things and some say that he has even raised the dead.

  "The hand of The Great Spirit has turned the mind of Cloud Watcher and granted him mighty powers. I, Swift Walker, saw him fell a known warrior by raising a hand, and the touch of his eye has caused squaws to give birth before their time. Cloud Watcher cannot be wounded by spears or harmed by the heaviest clubs. The Great Spirit's protection lies about him and none can reach through.

  "The medicine of Cloud Watcher is powerful, for he can say where the moose park in winter and when the shad will appear in the rivers. The thoughts of Cloud Watcher are important and when his great vision appeared, all listened, for the good of our people lay in his words."

  The Warrior accepted Swift Walker's story. His questions were many and he did not belittle the Chippewa's faith in the medicine of Cloud Watcher. Late Star spoke often with spirits long departed, and did not The Great Spirit also touch his own mind and grant him victories? The medicine of Cloud Watcher had pointed Chippewa fighters against him, so Cloud Watcher did possess power.

  He left Swift Walker without ceremony, anxious to be alone with his thoughts, but he dwelt within them only shortly before knowing the need of insights greater than his own. He began the long run to the Buffalo Creek where Late Star would be dreaming in his blankets. This time he would shake his old teacher awake and into the present for his counsel was needed.

  A sizzling turkey joint held beneath Star's nose wakened him, but he brushed the meat away content to glare at The Warrior squatting before him.

  If Late Star gained pleasure from his former student's presence he buried it, and although the sun could cause sweat he pulled his robes more closely. The words of The Warrior piqued his interest and eyes that could turn rheumy lit with much of his old intensity.

  "A Chippewa heals slowly in the lodge of Den Bear, oh Late Star. It is his claim that Cloud Watcher, a shaman among them, raises the dead and speaks with The Sky Father."

  Late Star's grunt held disgust, but his words were thoughtful. "Cloud Watcher is a brave name, oh Warrior. I should have chosen it myself.

  "So, what brings this raiser of the dead to my nephew's interest?"

  "Cloud Watcher's greatest vision disclosed the rise of a leader that would unite the Iroquois nations in battle against the Chippewa. In the vision, the Chippewa were destroyed as fire sweeps a forest.

  "Also it was shown that the death of the leader could change the shape of the vision for, without that leader, the Iroquois would not challenge the Chippewa."

  The Warrior shifted weight before continuing. "Cloud Watcher announced the vision to the Chippewa and challenged his fighters and hunters to save their people by killing the one who would lead the Iroquois.

  "So they have come, and so they have died, for it is The Warrior who leads in Cloud Watcher's vision, and it is The Warrior they seek to kill."

  Late Star's laugh was an old man's cackle, "And have you tired of killing them, Warrior? If enough die, the medicine of Cloud Watcher will spoil and be forgotten."

  "I am more than wearied by it, Late Star. Against me come almost children and those without skills. They are like sick rabbits or fool grouse and there is no honor in the killing. The chiefs also tire of Chippewa creeping across our lands. Rattles are speaking and drums talk restlessly. Cloud Watcher creates the war he fears."

  Late Star nodded understanding, "Those who raise dead and enjoy visits with The Great Spirit often stir confusion."

  Surprised, The Warrior spoke quickly, "Do you believe Cloud Watcher raises the dead, Late Star?"

  The old teacher again grunted annoyance, "No, though stranger things are reported. The dead do not rise for anyone. Of this I am certain.

  "The vision however deserves thought for it is not unreasonable, and somehow The Warrior gained Cloud Watcher's attention."

  "The many he sends are real, Late Star, but how to end it is the worry."

  Without hesitation Star concluded, "Kill the Cloud Watcher and his medicine will vanish." His eyes crinkled, "Does this Chippewa seer not also claim protection against harm?"

  "How did you know?"

  "He is not the first, oh Warrior. Seers of mighty visions appear with astonishing regularity, and most claim such powers. In the end, all fail. Do you believe a Chippewa heel dancer would possess such protection?"

  "No, but . . ."

  "Then go and kill him, and let it be done with."

 
"His other powers may be great."

  Losing interest, Late Star withdrew a bony arm from the protection of his robes and placed a hand on The Warrior's broad shoulder attempting to shake him slightly.

  "Words are powerful weapons, nephew, but a tomahawk is quicker and more final.

  "Remember that those who cannot do things themselves are quick to send others.

  "Medicine works only on those who believe in it. You too have medicine of great power, my nephew. Believe in what you do, for you know that The Sky Father has chosen you for special things.

  "Kill the Cloud Watcher! Do not seek fair combat for he will send many. Do not extend honor, he will ignore it. Kill him as you would a poisonous snake, and do not again disturb my thoughts with this small thing." Late Star closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.

  ++++

  As usual, the words of Late Star raised as many questions as answers. Did it matter for instance that Cloud Watcher lived somewhere within a powerful nation that wished for The Warrior's blood? Should he drive an arrow through Cloud Watcher's medicine shirt from ambush or should he challenge the seer's powers with his own? Apparently, such details were beneath the notice of Late Star.

  In time a plan rooted, and The Warrior began it with visits to the nearly healed Swift Walker. From him he learned the village of Cloud Watcher, who rarely traveled. Through Swift Walker he sent warning that The Warrior had awakened and before his strength the medicine of Cloud Watcher would be only air. Cloud Watcher was to prepare for death, for as surely as the sun rose, The Warrior would come.

  The warning satisfied honor and only the correct time was needed. He had considered stalking Swift Walker on his return and crushing Cloud Watcher within moments of his warning. Better was the final plan.

  Word of The Warrior's coming would spread like fish oil on water and in time the Chippewa people would hear. Then the cold would come, and all would wait through the bitter moons expecting nothing until the sun again warmed. During the harshest of seasons, The Warrior would appear.

  Wearing only a loincloth, he would be seen in passing. At first, few would believe the stories, but the death of Cloud Watcher would prove them, and mighty indeed would seem the power of the Iroquois.

  The Warrior's harsh features almost smiled at the strength of the plan. That he must travel vast distances, to be seen only when wishing it within the killing cold of the Frost Father was discounted. If he could travel one day, he could travel another, as many as were needed. Instead, he sharpened his plan for the memorable death of the Chippewa Cloud Watcher.

  Until the shortest day, The Warrior waited. He hardened his body to the cold as never before, and he planned his pack carefully. Among the winter moccasins were rolled spare leggings, and a fur jacket and a wolf fur cloak and hat would cover him on the coldest marches.

  Pond Lily fashioned a muff from doubled raccoon so that fur lay against his hands as well as to the weather. The muff would hang from cords passed behind his neck so he could quickly free his hands without dropping the muff.

  He planned no hunting but included hooks and line as well as strong snares, for lodges could be far apart. Rain added her fine pemmican to those of Pond Lily, and The Warrior was prepared.

  It was a good time to be away. Pond Lily's swelling abdomen announced their child, and at those times wise men fled for the voices of women ruled. Late Star groused that his failing legs prevented him from accompanying The Warrior at least to the Great Lakes, but all were hard put to remember him walking further than the arrowmaker's lodge on the Little Buffalo. If Pond Lily feared his well-being, she hid it as was proper. A warrior facing his enemies did not need the memory of an unhappy squaw.

  The Warrior took the long trail north to the Erie Lake with satisfaction. By now the distant Chippewa would have nearly forgotten his warning, and within his warm lodge, among his own people. Cloud Watcher might sneer at the idle threat.

  After the Erie, he would turn west and pass the next lake. Then he would turn again north and be within the lands of the Chippewa. He wished himself closer, but during the moon that he walked the cold would settle deeper, and the Chippewa would feel ever safer.

  ++++

  Women had chopped through their river's thick ice, and they fished stoically their bodies robed thickly against wind that could quickly freeze exposed parts. Almost as one they saw the summer clad giant loping toward them. One dropped her line and would have lost it but for its cross stick, and all would have fled if the figure had not slowed and held both hands outward in an obvious sign of peace.

  Giant in size, his body bared to the cold's bitterness, he wore only breechclout and thick moccasins. Tomahawks and a knife of iron lay at his waist and the tremendous development of naked chest and shoulders would at other times have warmed them.

  Beneath the paint, features as hard as the river's ice were broken only by eyes within which some dark fury glowed. His voice did nothing to calm their fears for his words were of death and their intensity weakened their limbs.

  "Fear not, women of the Chippewa. I pass only to kill the one called Cloud Watcher. Know that you have seen The Warrior of the Iroquois and know that his medicine is powerful. Know that the seer Cloud Watcher cannot stand before it."

  The black and white of war paint flashed as his head turned to include them all. He handed a trembling squaw a black raven feather, then resumed his steady lope and was quickly gone at a river's bend.

  Like startled magpies the women chattered. As one they gathered their lines and scurried to their lodges. In time, doubting men came to the river, but the windswept ice left no trails. The women were unchanging in their story, and despite its impossibility the men wondered and talked among themselves. A raven's feather? They were easily found—what significance could it hold?

  The Warrior had passed the fishing women in the woods. Well ahead, he had left his pack and clothing. Like a startled deer he had returned through the woods and turned again to approach the fishers. The wind cut like Shawnee knives, but he forced his voice steady and kept the shake from his body. By the time he reclothed, his fingers and ears were numbed and he decided to make future appearances far shorter.

  He could imagine the women's excited tellings and their men's disbelieving snorts. Some might attempt to follow so he moved swiftly. They would find nothing, but the story would spread to mix with others that he would prepare, and each raven feather would bind them. By the time of trees budding, all Chippewa would know that The Warrior called The Iroquois had traveled in winter without robes to destroy the medicine of Cloud Watcher. That alone should cripple desires to seek him out.

  Another time he appeared at dusk, choosing a lodge of two families that lay within a small village. He swept through the entrance shaking snow from his naked shoulders and holding the inhabitants by the ferocity of his presence.

  Although his hands were empty, gleaming tomahawks at his waist warned the hunters and their squaws. In fear children crept to protecting arms, but the men remained frozen, food forgotten in their hands weapons beyond reach.

  "I am The Warrior. I seek only the fool called Cloud Watcher who has sent fighters against me. Fear not, men of the Chippewa, only Cloud Watcher need die, for his medicine will be as smoke before the power of The Warrior."

  They could believe, for the arm that took food from an unresisting hand appeared stronger than an oak and large beyond experience. As though in payment, to a cringing squaw he handed a raven feather and the lodge flap closed behind him.

  For a long wait the lodge voices were soft. When a hunter looked forth nothing was to be seen and then the talk became loud and animated. Soon there were rushings to other lodges to report the most exciting tale any could recall.

  The Warrior thought the shaking of snow from a small tree on his head and shoulders a clever addition, but he again did not linger. Pauses must not delay him, for he wished to find the Cloud Watcher before word of his approach was received.

  As described by Swift Walker, the
village of Cloud Watcher was large. It lay within a valley where the best lodges were placed on the north to catch the southern, low winter sun. Among them would be the lodge of The Watcher, and from it The Warrior would have to pluck his quarry. There was constant traffic, and dogs would be about. Cloud Watcher was said to travel little, and the task did not appear easy.

  From good cover, The Warrior located the lodge of the medicine man. It was plainly marked by magical symbols posted before it, but not until dusk did Cloud Watcher come forth. The Warrior knew him by many necklaces and hair which fell to his waist. He had been so described by Swift Walker, but The Warrior had expected an older man. The Watcher appeared in mid-life, and to have gained prominence before advanced age proved a powerful acceptance of his powers.

  His quarry located, The Warrior retreated to prepare. A distance from the village but near the main path, a tall and slender tree reached skyward. He climbed it with ease, working higher until it bent beneath his weight. Carefully he crept along the thinning trunk, allowing the cold- stiffened wood time to stretch before edging further. Finally the tree tip touched the ground and he lashed it there with hide thongs. He used his tomahawk to strip the trunk of all branches except a small fork near the top. Then he wedged a raven's feather in the bark and withdrew to a place from which he could watch.

  No one had used the path, so his chopping had gone unnoted. Those who might see it during the following light might wonder and discuss its reason, but they would not discover his presence and by the next day he expected their curiosity to be satisfied.

  Far from the village, The Warrior rested through the night and well into the next day. The Frost Father favored him as steady snowfall began. Again few would venture forth, and if he could keep his scent from the dogs he should not be discovered.

  The lodge of Cloud Watcher was large and would hold many families. He had no intention of leaping in, tomahawks flailing. This was a time for stealth, surprise, and mystery.

  Behind the lodge was a place where the occupants relieved themselves. On his single appearance, Cloud Watcher had gone there and it was there The Warrior would wait. If the Chippewa came with another . . . he had extra raven feathers.