Ironhawk (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series Book 6) Read online

  Within the lodge of Tree Shadow the tales of The Warrior's countless combats were retold a thousand times. Without his full realization, the mind of his youngest son had been taken by the storytelling. Until now, the boy wished only to be a killer of men as much like The Warrior as he could manage.

  There could be only one Warrior. Tree Shadow knew that as clearly as he saw sunrise. He was not among those who believed that their killer was a son of The Great Spirit, but Tree Shadow knew that no other would ever possess the awesome physical strengths and the almost madness that made The Warrior invincible in battle and unswerving in dedication to his people.

  Nor was there a place for another Warrior. The times were changing. Whites with their guns were altering the strengths of all tribes and bands. White sicknesses had devastated some while others thrived and prospered through trade with the whites.

  The old ways were dying before his eyes, and Tree Shadow could see that the times of honorable battle were gone. Only slaughter and misery remained. If The Warrior reappeared, he would fling himself against the Whites, but in time, even his mighty strengths would fail before their sheer numbers.

  Although he was considered overly thoughtful and slow to act, once decided Tree Shadow’s directions were often startling. The Warrior had come regularly because the Shadow’s thoughts were unlike most others. When their lodge stood in the village of Augwich even Late Star, the noted seer of visions enjoyed the words and thoughts of Tree Shadow.

  For more than a moon’s turning, Tree Shadow had pondered his son’s hunger to become The Warrior. He waited vainly for the child’s attention to turn, but the youth remained untempted. Now it was time to act, and Tree Shadow believed he had developed a plan.

  If Young-Son, the name he had chosen for his youngest, was enthralled by the mystique of the long absent Warrior, the obvious answer was to expose the youth to an aura at least as powerful as that of The Warrior, a presence that could overwhelm the somehow unfading memories lodged within the mind of Young-Son.

  Fortunately, Tree Shadow knew of such a personality. The remaining problem would be to persuade the larger-than-life figure to help in turning youthful devotion from The Warrior to his own imposing presence. Not a small task, Tree Shadow feared.

  To compound the difficulty, Tree Shadow had known the new hero in earlier years but now encountered him only in passing. There was, however, a powerful connection that the Shadow believed would encourage The Warrior’s replacement.

  Once, Young-Son had been other than Delaware. Tree Shadow had accepted the boy-child from a warrior band of Shawnee that had tired of carrying their squalling and befouled captive across the borders of Iroquois lands to their own distant villages. Then, Young-Son had been white, and the lack of color still showed during the sunless winters and always beneath his loincloth.

  The people of the Delaware cared little about such unimportant features. What mattered was the spirit of the individual, and raised as a Delaware, Young-Son knew only the story of his arrival at the lodge of Tree Shadow. What had gone before was lost to his memory. Young-Son was as Delaware as his natural bothers, and Tree Shadow held him as close to his heart as any of his other children.

  Young-Son was now two hands of age, Tree Shadow believed, and all but the first of those years he had been a Delaware. The same was true of his younger sister. That girl-child who had slept so comfortably against the breast of The Warrior had come from passing Seneca, who had been told that Tree Shadow was willing to accept captive babes that were now unwanted.

  Past her child-bearing seasons, the woman of Tree Shadow had welcomed the infants, and their lodge had been warmed by the presence of new children. Their skin color was at first a curiosity, but that interest had quickly faded. Delaware were many colorations with pale skins known, and one of Tree Shadow’s sons had inexplicably developed red hair, a variation much admired among his peers.

  The new hero that Tree Shadow intended using to divert his son's interests had also once been white. He lived now more as a white than as a Delaware, but the soul of Quehana the arrowmaker was Delaware and even his name had been given in his youth by The Warrior.

  In those earlier times, Tree Shadow had come regularly to the lodge of E'shan the arrowpoint maker to bargain for points and to share the latest gossip. Still a child and cursed with a sickness that all believed would end his life, Quehana had appeared from the forests. Surprising everyone, the barely living skeleton had thrived under the care of E'shan's squaws, and Quehana had become well and had grown to immense size with a physical strength that rivaled The Warrior's.

  The hunters of many tribes still traveled to the little Buffalo Creek where Quehana's lodge of wood and stone now crouched against the earth. They came to trade for his iron arrow points that even The Warrior had declared were blessed by the Great Spirit.

  Quehana had a white name that Tree Shadow did not recall, but all of the tribes honored the Arrowmaker. Delaware totems had been placed as protection at the borders of woods and fields that Quehana used, and even the prickly Shawnee kept their distance.

  Quehana had also fought great battles. Not mighty combats for honor and tribe as had The Warrior, but Quehana was known to kill his enemies, and none that Tree Shadow knew would choose to face him.

  Dead enemies would impress Young-Son, as they did all who knew, and Quehana's impressive size and strength should replace the memories of The Warrior's similar attributes.

  Quehana's presence was dominating, but unlike The Warrior's, the threat of imminent danger did not overwhelm all other senses. Tree Shadow believed that if he could induce Quehana to council with Young-Son, to give him inspirational messages, and to flood his soul with visions of tasks other than smashing and clubbing enemies, the mind of Young-Son might be turned.

  The lodges of Tree Shadow and two of his long-married sons stood this season where the Raccoon Creek joined the Juniata River, and the great lodge of Quehana lay only a comfortable day's march downriver and up the little Buffalo Creek.

  Tree Shadow would travel alone, and the day of walking would be pleasant. The traveling would give his mind opportunity to prepare his words, and he might plan to spend his night at the lodge of Quehana.

  That part too held allure as one of E'shan's squaws now lived in the lodge of Quehana, and talk of old and finer times could be shared.

  E'shan was now with the honored ancestors, and Tree Shadow had reached an age where he enjoyed considering the Great Spirit's land that held all who had gone before.

  In fact, it seemed to Tree Shadow that almost everyone he had known in his youth was already pleasuring themselves at councils and on the hunts in that land of plenty. The Shadow expected that if he could better prepare this final son for a full and satisfying stay among the Delaware people, he would himself be prepared to travel through the veils of death to reside forever among those honored spirits who had gone before.

  The once-white girl child that he called Bright Morning? Her future would lie with a hunter of the Delaware, and Tree Shadow had learned long before that preparing women for life was not the duty of a father. All living have limitations, and his other daughters had acted as they wished despite his protestations or advice. So it would always be, the Shadow expected.

  Chapter Two

  1759

  Rob Shatto waited for the elderly Delaware beneath the giant sycamore that shaded his home. He had sighted the walker during his morning scout and had checked the traveler again when he had turned up the Little Buffalo. By now the old hunter should be within the creek narrows only a half mile distant.

  Indian visitors were frequent, and they were welcome. With the French War finished, hostiles had not appeared for two summers, which was ultimately satisfying, but the powerful frontiersman had grown up among the Delaware people, and he knew the tribes. In a single light a war party could cover immense distances, and because none were about this morning did not mean that none would approach during the day. Shatto scouted most mornings, and w
hen the mood struck, he roamed at other times.

  To see Rob Shatto was to see his rifle, his knife, probably a tomahawk, and certainly the two barreled flintlock pistol that was belted to the small of his back. Shatto wore his hair long in twin Delaware braids. His features were hawk-like with a skin so darkened by outdoor living that he appeared completely Indian.

  But Rob Shatto's stature was not Indian. He was taller than most white men, and he towered above all tribesmen. His body rolled with powerfully developed muscle that announced a strength crushing enough to turn aside even the most belligerent. At twenty-six, Shatto had gained the physical power of maturity yet still enjoyed the agility and endurance of the young.

  Unlike many large and powerful men, Rob Shatto moved with athletic quickness. His legs were not the expected pillars that his lean-waisted, wedge-like body implied. Rob's were runner's legs with long and smooth muscle that on the trail seemed never to tire.

  At ease in his own yard, Rob chose to slump comfortably against his favorite tree. Nearby slab benches appealed to most, but to a man raised within a Delaware lodge, the earth was at least as inviting.

  His gaze was focused on workers cultivating his closest field. So far, the season had proven exceptionally favorable for the com crop, and he and Will Miller, who did the farming, were considering enlarging the still that made whiskey from their excess grain, and that of any neighbors preferring the simplicity and more certain profit from shipping barreled whiskey.

  The Shatto lands had passed subsistence years, and the family could now expect profitable crops that might be favorably traded, or in rare cases, sold for genuine money.

  The fact was, there was virtually no money on the frontiers. Without enough gold and silver to be passed around, business was necessarily reduced to barter, and it could be remarkably unprofitable to deliver spoilable crops to distant markets only to receive trade goods that were either unneeded or themselves spoilable. Whiskey was proving to be the most durable trade product yet found, and whiskey was accepted in trade almost as readily as was gold or silver.

  The real trick to living well within the mountains was to be diverse in profitable activities. The old forge inherited from his grandfather had proven the most valuable, and Rob Shatto's arrow points and hatchet heads were used by many tribes from far distances. Indians traded in furs and occasionally in coins of rarely seen mintage. Rob had accepted French, Spanish, and Portuguese silver as well as Dutch and a few others he could not identify.

  Of course, he was not Rob Shatto to the Indians. In his youth The Warrior had named him Quehana, Arrowmaker, and that name had stuck like pine sap.

  Rob's skin tightened with the thought of The Warrior. That massively framed killer had not appeared for many years, and Rob hoped he never returned.

  Being close to that unpredictable destroyer of enemies was akin to smoking while handling gun powder. No one he had ever met could judge The Warrior's direction or reaction, and all had to hope that they guessed right because The Warrior killed as easily as he rewarded.

  Rob's gaze shifted often to the home nestled within the cut of the Little Buffalo for the building of the living place had burned the boyhood from him and changed Rob Shatto into much that he had become.

  When he had left the lodge of E’shan, Shatto had planned long. The almost single-handed construction of the stone house with a clay tiled roof had taken seasons of terrible labor, and somehow that huge toil had ballooned his body from the ordinary into a round-muscled, iron-hard frame that actually did rival the giant they all called The Warrior. When Rob Shatto crossed Kittatinny Mountain to visit the village at Carlisle his stature and appearance turned heads and shortened breathing. Rob Shatto was immediately recognized.

  The stone, timber and tile castle-like home nestled near the headwaters of a branch of Little Buffalo Creek provided a base for all that had followed. Now, Shatto children tumbled about the place, and his beloved wife, Becky was assisted by Flat, one of E'shan's old squaws. Will Miller and various helpers performed the farm labors, although Rob pitched in when new meadows were cleared.

  Before too long, Shatto planned to enlarge his dam across the Little Buffalo and build a grist mill. That important step forward awaited only the farming of enough grain on his own and his distant neighbors’ acres to make the milling of flour profitable. Still later, there would be a vertical saw attached to their mill wheel. In his mind Rob saw a finished and producing plantation that would keep the Shattos and their children secure through their lives.

  Rob Shatto’s personal tasks were hunting game for their tables and providing the essential security against marauders.

  The hunting was, of course, pleasurable, and Rob’s deadly rifle rarely missed. Sherman’s Valley was the richest game lands in all of the Iroquois Nation, and before the encroachment of whites, the Indians had held the land as a special hunting ground as well as a buffer between their confederacy and neighboring tribes.

  Except for a few displaced Delaware, the land had remained empty of human intrusion, and even now the lesser valleys held few cabins or lodges. Even the traditional Delaware fishing camps along the rivers now lay empty as the tribes slipped away before white intrusion.

  With the French War ended, white settlers were trickling in, but not in numbers, and except for Jack Elan who lived a valley over, none were close to the Shatto holdings. For at least a few more years, Rob Shatto would be alone among his beloved ridges and twisted hollows.

  The guard duty was also a satisfaction for Shatto. The frontier had taught him that to sleep too soundly could be not to waken at all. Pipes of peace had been smoked at many counsels, but all did not attend those meetings, and many defied leaders they had decided were spineless and perhaps traitors to their people.

  Warrior bands could gather and march at any time, and although his Delaware totems had protected his people during most of the troubled times, Rob placed the painted leather patches far below the value of steady scouting and a ready rifle.

  Visitors like the one striding up his narrow notch of a valley were part of Shatto’s security. Without writing, all information was passed among the tribes by word of mouth, and the bearers of messages were more honored than the village chieftains.

  The Delaware people enjoyed discussing all that was happening in their world. Among their own kind, Indians were talkative, and the inscrutable features shown to whites disappeared amid laughter and satisfying conversation.

  To the tribes, Quehana was Delaware. That he had once been white was rarely remembered and of no significance. What a man was held paramount importance, and Quehana had been singled out by The Warrior as someone special.

  Beyond that notice, Quehana had proven himself through open welcome and fair trade. People of the Lenai Lenapai, known to most as The Delaware, knew Quehana as a brother, and through them Rob Shatto kept abreast of most happenings within his Endless Hills.

  Tree Shadow had thoroughly planned his meeting with Quehana. He made his entrance formal and dignified as befitted counseling of importance.

  The Shadow marched with a long walking staff and before reaching the lodge of Quehana, he had rapped it smartly against a tree trunk to announce his presence. He held his head high and lifted his chest to appear younger than his too many years. Tree Shadow also lengthened his stride; old men tended to waddle in short and spraddle-legged steps that wounded their nobility.

  Quehana rose from sitting to greet his visitor, and Tree Shadow felt himself engulfed by the giant hunter’s aura of physical power. Truly, Quehana was much like The Warrior in appearance and presence. The Shadow felt renewed confidence in his scheming.

  For a long moment, Rob could not recognize his guest. He had not seen Tree Shadow for some years, and the old hunter’s name had not risen in conversation. Then he had it, and he recalled a younger Tree Shadow who had visited with some regularity at the lodge of E’shan, maker of arrow points.

  Rob whistled softly in greeting and called to Flat who worked wit
h Becky within the home. Flat peered from the doorway and immediately disappeared. She would know what should be done, and Rob put the ceremonials from his mind.

  "Welcome, Tree Shadow, to the lodge of Quehana."

  Rob put feeling into his greeting. He was both honored and surprised by the elder’s visit. The lodge of Tree Shadow did not journey this far down the Juniata, and the old hunter would not have simply happened by.

  Tree Shadow was heartened by Quehana’s enthusiasm. When one dealt with warriors who had killed many, the wise were prepared to adjust their own approaches and greetings.

  "It is a bright day, Quehana, and Tree Shadow is pleased to gaze upon one who once lived within the lodge of E'shan."

  As Tree Shadow hoped, Quehana smiled.

  "Long is the memory of Tree Shadow."

  Flat appeared exactly on schedule and spread a thick blue blanket for their visitor's sitting.

  Tree Shadow acknowledged the courtesy and pointedly recognized the aging squaw.

  "Thank you, woman of the Delaware. Although he is far upon the Great Spirit’s trail, E'shan will note your respect for his old friend."

  Flat touched her lips with fingertips to show acknowledgment and hastened about her other duties.

  The men sat facing each other assuming the straight-backed and cross-legged sitting of formal council. Flat reappeared with a long pipe packed with kinnikinnick and a smoldering, resinous pine stick that she quickly fanned into flame.

  Holding fire to the pipe bowl, Quehana sucked the pipe into life and, using both hands, offered it for his visitor's enjoyment.

  Pipe smoking was an essential formality because it sealed the pact of friendship at counciling, but Tree Shadow could see that Quehana was not a regular user. The Shadow puffed deeply and exhaled politely through both nose and mouth.

  He studied the pipe of Quehana with interest while noting that his host’s kinnikinnick was an interesting blend that did not snatch at the throat the way most did. Indeed, if his own mix could taste like Quehana’s, he might smoke with some pleasure.