Friend Seeker (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 2

  Finally the warriors gave up. On Hawk's command they returned to the trail and Squash's muscles gathered as one passed dangerously close. They muttered together and finally, amid loud talking, moved away at the same run they had been using.

  Slowly Squash's heartbeat approached normal. He could scarcely believe he had escaped, but he continued to lie unmoving allowing the enemy and his friend time to be far away. He exhaled slowly, expecting he'd been holding his breath painfully long. Then his skin rose in prickling goose bumps that disturbed the blood sucking insects tormenting him and he knew with some unidentified certainty that he wasn't yet free. As surely as he lay there he knew that Hawk Foot or another crouched waiting and listening on the trail. He again found his heart pounding and his flesh alternating between the clammy chill of fear and the flushed desperation of cuts, scratches, and insect bites. The arm upon which he lay ached while his hands numbed in their bonds, but he forced himself to remain still—knowing that this was no game played among friends and reminding himself that to move meant to die.

  The sun traveled with infinite slowness and the heat bore down bathing him in sweat. If anything, the insect horde increased and he feared Hawk Foot might detect their concentrated droning.

  Long ago, Little Boy would have reached the lodges. He tried to visualize the men as they armed and pursuit began. Surely rescue would be close. He imagined his father and the others racing along the path, perhaps even now close to the cane field.

  Nearby there was movement. He felt more than heard it and tension again tightened his sinews. Silent as a bird's flight, moccasins appeared in his view. He studied their pattern knowing Hawk Foot stood in them.

  Awareness that if his enemy crouched to look low through the cane they would be eye to eye terrified Squash and he had to struggle to remain still and not leap into desperate flight

  For a lifetime the moccasins remained in view. Unmoving, suffering a thousand agonies, Squash watched the warrior shift his weight or wriggle his toes in growing impatience. Finally he moved from sight and Squash immediately wished him back so he would at least know his whereabouts.

  The day wore on, light changing to the slanting rays of late afternoon, and still the men did not come. It was beyond Squash's understanding unless another warrior band had struck the village and the men could not break away to aid a small number of boys. The temptation to move increased with his imaginings while the legion of mosquitoes sucked him dry and the cramping of arms and legs grew ever worse.

  In desperation he invented tests to occupy his mind. He fantasized Hawk Foot still watching nearby, confident of out-waiting a youthful Delaware. He imagined his return to the fishing camp and the happiness and relief within his family, but each vision faded quickly leaving only the reality of his misery.

  From the direction taken by Hawk Foot, a rabbit hopped casually along the path. It paused to wrinkle whiskers, an unblinking eye seeming to stare directly into Squash's. Undisturbed, it scratched an ear and continued from view.

  Squash considered the sign. He doubted Hawk Foot would have left the trail. Could the rabbit ignore such an obstacle? It seemed unlikely. He could only believe that Hawk Foot was gone. Probably he had long ago caught his companions and they were herding Late Star away.

  Planning carefully, Squash decided he would rise silently and loosen his cramped muscles until ready and able to move swiftly. Then he would work at his bonds until he freed himself. With the use of his arms, Hawk Foot or no one else could catch him within the cane.

  He moved with utmost caution onto his knees, finding one arm numb and his right eye swollen shut. Mosquitoes swarmed around his head, but with tied hands he could not brush them away. Listening carefully he heard no sounds and rose awkwardly to his feet. A foot too had slept and he wriggled his toes and flexed his knees forcing feeling.

  Erect, he could not see the path, but he began edging cane aside with his head and shoulders seeking room in which to work at his bonds and encouraging his clumsy feet to keep his balance. The cane resisted and he feared his movements could be heard throughout the valley. He abandoned his plan of freeing his bonds and decided to silently gain the path and flee to safety.

  When he reached it, the narrow path lay empty and without pausing he turned for home. The first stride was his undoing as his half-awake foot betrayed him and he fell heavily, crashing into the bordering cane.

  He was up and rushing blindly along the trail, fear pumping strength, expecting at each step the bite of an arrow or the bone-shattering impact of a war club. Yet he passed the edge of the cane and staggered on without pursuit. Gradually, he regained control and slowed his panicked flight to a trot and finally to a walk.

  Once into open forest, the mosquito plague fell behind, but his body seemed a single burning itch and at the first opportunity he left the trail and sank himself completely in the soothing coolness of the Buffalo Creek.

  He counted the water the most satisfying moment of his life. He could feel his skin opening to the welcome moisture and could almost see the accumulations of filth, blood, and mosquito bodies floating away. Throbbing along his head from Hawk Foot's blows eased and his tongue could delicately feel around the cuts along his lips.

  He stretched his hands against the water soaked rawhide tying his wrists, felt it loosen, and knew he would soon be free. He wished his swollen eye would open as he found it hard to judge even close things with a single eye.

  His wrist bonds loosened first and a moment later a thumb came free. Although he could reach the strips above his elbows he could not loosen the water soaked knots. Abandoning his effort he sat before a jagged-edged outcropping and sawed his elbows up and down until the strap across his back parted. Then he quickly released the elbow ties and was free.

  He soaked a few moments longer, but the water now seemed chill and he experienced a great longing to be home among familiar things. There were only a few miles to go and he wondered that still no rescue party had appeared. Perhaps Little Boy had been captured before reaching the lodges, or perhaps the lodges themselves had been attacked and overrun. The latter thought frightened him and he examined it closer deciding that it would take a large war party to accomplish that task and Hawk Foot and his warriors seemed alone.

  Could Hawk Foot have chosen a new ambush closer to the village knowing he would go there and probably use the same trail? Squash found that improbable. Lurking close to an alerted village deep in Iroquois land would be foolishly reckless.

  He scrambled to the bank, took time to squeeze water from both clout and moccasins, and took the trail homeward. He passed the thicket where Eagle's body lay, fearing to look and anxious to be past. No one loitered below the ledge and closer in, where young children played, the stream flowed unmuddied. He opened his stride, feeling his lungs pull and his muscles accept the challenge.

  A quarter mile from the lodges, the land flattened, and the forest was broken by clearings where corn and vegetables grew. The fields, too, were empty, but with the sun low in the west that would be usual. Food would be cooking and families gathering for the day's final meal. Squash became acutely aware of not having eaten since morning and his sore mouth salivated in sympathy.

  A powerful hand grasped his arm, jerking him to a stop and out of his reverie. Certainty that Hawk Foot had again taken him quickly faded. The Delaware smell was right even before he recognized Late Star's father. Profound relief weakened Squash's knees and tears stung shamefully. Star's father was armed and he moved Squash to a downed log with an eye still upon the woods and trail. An older hunter, he limped slightly, and Squash supposed he was unable to take the trail with the others.

  Grunts of understanding interrupted Squash's telling of his capture and escape. He saw knuckles tighten as he told of Eagle's death and saw the chin rise in pride when he spoke of Star's attempted escape in the cane. When he was finished, the old hunter set him back on the trail and with thick, powerful fingers straightened his shoulders so that his chest rose. He combed S
quash's matted hair into some order and looked long into Squash's eyes. His words were few, but they thundered in Squash's soul as no words had before.

  "Return like a warrior, nephew. You have done well."

  — — —

  Chapter 2

  After a hand of tellings, Squash was weary of the story. The few men remaining in the village had questioned him at length and that had been a proud time. He had stood tall and felt their eyes and thoughts solemn upon him. His wounds, stings, and bruises had seemed marks of great honor and he wished he hadn't washed away the dirt and blood.

  He had repeated in detail to his mother and other women, and a third time to Little Boy and some others. At that time he embellished the story with inspired if not overly accurate details and that telling might have been best of all. Later a few men returned from their scouting and he had labored through facts rapidly becoming stale to his own ears. With dark, others arrived and needed to hear. He was tired until his good eye sagged and his swollen mouth hurt abominably.

  He was more than grateful when his mother shooed visitors from the lodge. She filled his belly with thick soup and renewed the soothing, sweet smelling ointment that covered his abused body. The security of his sleeping robes was ultimate comfort and he sank into them feeling the veil of sleep slipping closer. Outside the lodge, men talked of their actions and what they would undertake at dawn, but sleep called too strongly and their voices faded.

  Rescue had not come because there was more to the problem than arming and rushing down the trail. Squash was told this in late morning by Three Feathers, the aged warrior who instructed boys of the fishing camp throughout the summer.

  Three Feathers had been a mighty warrior in battles recalled by only a few. His wounds were many, and he had long since attained the envied status of one so widely recognized that the painting of scars and wearing of special ornaments was unnecessary.

  Because he was very old, Three Feathers was always cold. Even in summer heat he wore an unadorned shirt of softest doeskin and ankle length leggings that touched his moccasins. Despite his age, Three Feathers stood as straight as a poplar and his eyes flashed with a fierceness that could send shivers across a youth's belly.

  Early each day the boys of the village appeared before Three Feathers to learn the ways of manhood. The lessons were many and almost always tedious. Only when their teacher illustrated with stories of old campaigns and battles did youthful ears perk up. Usually they listened dully and performed their tasks with little enthusiasm. When he was turned away and they were certain of being unseen, they gestured and smirked at Three Feathers' crackling joints.

  Yet most of what they knew came from the old warrior. How could a long hunter best carry fire from camp to camp? How could a bowstring be fashioned from animal gut, from braided hair, or in emergency from green vines? Where did the turkeys roost during high winds? And of course the important skills of wrestling and using club, spear, and bow as hunting and fighting weapons.

  Despite their antics and well-concealed impersonations, even the youngest felt privileged to learn from Three Feathers, for his knowledge was great and his students did well. Until the teacher agreed, a youth remained a boy and was not included in village affairs. Squash had watched carefully trying to determine how Three Feathers judged a student ready to leave his instruction and become a full participant in a lodge, but the signs were confusing. Some departed still clumsy with their tools while others changed almost overnight and no longer seemed one with the rest of them. The Squash finally decided that Three Feathers kept his students only as long as they could learn. Then he threw them forth.

  Squash arrived late at the morning instruction. His body itched horribly and his still-closed eye had turned black well down into his cheek. His ear was puffed and hot to the touch and speech was uncomfortable through lips swollen and tender.

  He had loitered, hoping he would be excused until Three Feathers dismissed his charges for the day, but his mother had betrayed him and demanded his attendance.

  Squash found it distressing that the small village continued much as though the violence of yesterday had not occurred. Men were gone and scouts were in the near woods. Women's cries were loud where Eagle's body was being prepared and his family had blackened their faces. The lump in Squash's throat was great when he thought of the confident and certain Eagle being dead and forever gone. Otherwise, routines continued, women scurried about, fires smoked, and children scattered and gathered.

  Because the day was fine with clear skies and bright sun, Three Feathers and his students were gathered beneath a great tree. The youths sat cross-legged while the teacher stood.

  Three Feathers halted his lesson at Squash's approach and directed him to sit near the front of the group. Arranging himself, Squash saw a large youth whose lodge had just arrived, cupping his eye and puffing his lips in mockery of Squash's damaged features. He knew the youth as Large Fish, an irritating and aggressive competitor during the preceding summer. He resolved to redirect the Fish's humor as soon as convenient.

  His annoyance might have shown, for Large Fish's mockery altered to jaw-thrusting defiance. Squash turned away to find Three Feathers examining him speculatively.

  "Did you mark your enemy, oh Squash?" Three Feathers' voice was courteous with no hint of criticism.

  "No, Three Feathers. Our enemy struck as he wished and my blows were as nothing." Squash was relieved by his own lack of hesitation in telling honestly of his defeat and embarrassment, but he saw no need of including his humiliation in the briar thicket. He heard Fish's snicker and stored it in his memory.

  Three Feathers nodded understanding. "Did you attempt the kick to the enemy's fork, or the stab to the throat or eye?"

  The teacher's tone was only curious and Squash felt free to consider his answer.

  "I am not sure, Three Feathers. I fear I fought without thought, trying only to escape." He felt the touch of guilt at his answer.

  "So!" The teacher's word was not condemnation and he turned to his pupils. "We will learn much from the actions of our enemy. The Squash has already profited for he has fought as a warrior and bears marks of battle." Squash flushed with pride. "He will learn more and you with him. He will learn why he ran through the forest without eyes and ears. He will learn why his blows were weak and why a brother is dead and another captured and perhaps also dead." Elation fled, and Squash felt foolish and incompetent.

  "In his thoughts, Squash wonders why our warriors are not as wolves closing on our enemy to free your brother and avenge our dead." Squash listened abashed, for Three Feathers read his thoughts.

  The old warrior sighed, perhaps in resignation, and dropped into the straight-backed sitting of council. He drew forth pipe and tobacco and a younger youth sped to a fire pit for a hot coal. Students hunched closer, for pipe lighting always indicated storytelling and Three Feathers was a masterful dream weaver.

  "All of which I now speak I have told you before. Then you blew out your cheeks and rolled your eyes, thinking I did not see." Some squirmed uncomfortably. "But now, the words will have stronger meaning and perhaps fewer lodges will lose sons and rend their garments in sorrow.

  "To understand, we must return to the time of my youth when I first nocked the war arrow and screamed the panther cry.

  "In those days, we, the Delaware, stood proud among tribes, for it was known that none were as wise or as fierce in battle. Then the five tribes we know as the Iroquois joined hands and came against us as one. Those were times of mighty combats with warriors fighting in lines and arming with long spears and round shields of thick hide or hard wood." Three Feathers sighed and smoked in memory.

  "Strong stood the Delaware, but where an Oneida fell a Mohawk rose, and after the Mohawk, an Onondaga or a Seneca. They were too many and though we counted coups until the wailing of squaws drove game from the great lakes we were too few and we were beaten.

  "The Iroquois knew the wisdom of the Delaware and in great assemblies granted ou
r counselors honor as worthy advisors and allowed our people to live in peace on these rich lands.

  "The Iroquois in turn exacted promises from our chiefs. The Delaware would not attack other tribes and would honor the Iroquois Confederacy. In exchange, Iroquois warrior societies would defend the Delaware as they defended their own.

  "So it has been for many turning of seasons. As men, we avenge wrongs against us, but as a tribe we do not make war.

  The ways have proven good. There is peace over the land. War parties from other tribes fear the might of the Iroquois Nations and wave their spears in other faces."

  He paused, blowing smoke upward. "But in all things, there are exceptions. So, to our lodges come warriors from a distant tribe. They seek honor and excitement. They search for heroic deeds and they collect trophies and scalps, coups or captives. Like wolves, they are often about and must be guarded against. If found they must be killed or driven off.

  "When Little Boy told of the attack by strange warriors, we knew not whom or how many. Was their attack on boys their only goal or a diversion to draw our men away? If they were many, we must flee, holding them off until the women and children reached safety. But in what direction? Across the Juniata? Up it or down it? Only a fool leaps before he studies where he will land.

  "Quickly scouts went out and quickly our men armed and prepared the women for flight."

  Three Feathers used his pipe as a pointer, aiming it about as he talked and sketching with it in the dirt.

  "Here at the Buffalo Creek, we hunt, fish, and plant within a mighty bowl. To our south, rises Kittatinny Mountain and to our north the mountain called Tuscarora. All streams flow to the Juniata or the Susquehanna. All trails meet and pass over the mountains or cross the rivers at a few places. While it is possible to pass elsewhere, the ways are slow and difficult. Fleeing or attacking, our enemies usually travel the paths. Knowing this, scouts rushed to the passes across the mountains. There they wait and watch. If the enemy appears they will know and we will know.