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

  The pipe, too, was handsome. The bowl was animal bone, and Tree Shadow remembered that the first arrow points Quehana had made for The Warrior had been carved from bone. The arrowhead mark of Quehana was scratched into the bowl’s surface, and that too reminded the Shadow of a time not too distant when Quehana had run to the ground a Shawnee band that had taken his woman.

  In fact, Tree Shadow’s gaze took in the scalps of the dead Shawnee where Quehana had pegged them over his lodge entrance. Mighty in battle was Quehana.

  Tree Shadow had sought the memory of the Squaw of E’shan’s name, and he was pleased that it returned to him as the woman brought a common bowl of hot meat strips to sample during their council.

  Tree Shadow said, "This aging hunter thanks you, Flat, and remembers many kindnesses from seasons past." The squaw’s broad features wreathed in smile, and only then did Tree Shadow recall that the name Flat had been given to the woman by Quehana and another youth of the lodge because she, unlike E’shan’s other woman, had no bosom. The squaws had become known as Flat and Fat denoting the other woman’s ample chest. Wild and daring had been the youths of E’shan’s lodge.

  The Shadow wondered if he could recall what had happened to Fat? Perhaps he would ask Quehana during their talking.

  The Arrowmaker judged the mood of Tree Shadow. Clearly the old one had something to ask. His wishes would in time be known, but for the moment the Shadow was clearly enjoying meeting old acquaintances, and Quehana could see his eyes drift in thought and memory.

  The pleasure was not one-sided. Most of the Delaware and hunters from other tribes came for iron arrow points. They were younger men who hurried their trading, and few worried themselves with remembering older times or kept track of personages beyond their immediate lodges.

  Following discussion of the weather and the probability of a strong corn harvest, Quehana spoke of white encroachments, and the Shadow reported departures of Delaware for scattered existence among the tribes of the Ohio country.

  Neither approved of what he told or heard. The swiftly changing world was not either counselor's liking, and the Shadow spoke with reverence of earlier times when Friend Seeker guarded the southern gate of the Iroquois lands.

  Then, Tree Shadow reported, the rivers held more fish, the eels were fatter, and the deer were almost too many. So it was with all times past. Men recalled the best and the worst, but in friendly councils past seasons were always summers, and if there had been war, only the glories were resurrected.

  In due course the meat had been eaten, the essential memories revisited, and the men moved to an ancient log that lay against the edge of the pond Quehana had created by damming the creek. Tree Shadow studied that wondrous work with special interest. When E'shan's lodge had stood beneath the great oak that still dominated the meadow, stones and clay had been pushed into the stream to raise the water level for bathing, but Quehana had created a pond worthy of a hundred beavers.

  Tree Shadow sighed in acceptance. There were still white ways within the breast of Quehana. Then he brightened, for white ways might be needed to satisfy the task he had in mind.

  The old hunter cleared his throat, and he saw Quehana's attention sharpen. The memories had been pleasant, but now it was time for serious discussion.

  Chapter Three

  The counciling was finished, and Tree Shadow refused offers of shelter within Quehana's lodge declaring that he would rest along the river and be in his own blankets before the next sun stood high.

  Rob understood. Delaware were often uncomfortable within solid walls. Iroquois did better with white buildings which were not all that different from their own communal longhouses, but the dwellings of the Delaware people were less sturdy and consisted mainly of animal hides or bark placed over bent willow poles.

  Quehana was equally willing to see his visitor depart for he had much to consider. As there were still hours of daylight, and because he thought best within the forest, Rob decided that a short scout to the west would be in order.

  Trouble often appeared from either the west or down the Juniata River. He mentally adjusted that reasoning to mean Indian troubles.

  White problems came in from the south via George Croghan's pass across Kittatinny Mountain. Civilization's interferences were rarely deadly, but unwelcome visitations by white officials seemed to increase with each season, and none brought good news.

  Tree Shadow had given Rob much to think about. The request was simple enough; Tree Shadow's youngest son was overly consumed by the spirit of The Warrior and needed to be diverted in less violent directions.

  Quehana was pleased that he had not been asked to attend some great counciling at an inconvenient distance—which had been his expectation. And, he had not been requested to join a war party that intended to deliver violent messages to unwelcome intruders. He had too often faced that well-intentioned but utterly undesired honor.

  Of course he had agreed to do his best. The acceptance had come easily, partly through relief at the seeming simplicity of the request, but just as much through desire to assist an old friend. As a father, Rob recognized that even an outside idiot could at times influence a son more than a father might. Sons discovered a father's flaws, but almost anyone unknown possessed mystery, and advice would be far more readily accepted if it were spoken by a figure of reputation who was not of the family.

  Rob knew his reputation. Whether as Shatto or as Quehana, he had carved his arrowhead mark deeply into the minds and souls of those he encountered. At Harris's Crossing or Fort Hunter and certainly within Carlisle, everyone walked carefully around him.

  Rob Shatto was believed by many to be more Indian than white, and no one doubted that he would violently respond to any perceived affront. The citizenry believed that because they had seen it or because the stories had been passed to them from actual witnesses.

  Rob Shatto shot straighter than anyone else. When attacked, he ripped and tore through his adversaries as if they were children. On one memorable occasion, a Carlisle citizen who had abused him had been ruthlessly branded on the buttocks by a white-hot horseshoe taken directly from the victim's own forge, and he would bear the brand forever. Shatto's massive physique dominated, and even strong men felt small when near him. Most who lived south of the Blue Mountain were uncomfortable around Rob Shatto and were pleased that he rarely ventured among them.

  Within the Endless Hills, he was Quehana, the Arrowmaker, and his reputation there was little different. Warriors who had come against Quehana had died. As far as was known, only a single Shawnee had survived an attempt to take captive the woman of Quehana, and that Shawnee was forever scarred. The bodies of the others had been hung as warning, and their scalps were above the entrance to Quehana's lodge.

  Quehana had visited the mock combats and competitions at the Warrior Marks far up the Juniata. Challenged by many, Quehana had competed in only a few contests. In wrestling, he had triumphed almost effortlessly, and in hatchet throwing, his tomahawk had flown as straight as any but buried itself so deeply that it was difficult to recover. No one chose to shoot muskets at the contests, but all recognized that Quehana would have stood far ahead in that white man's skill.

  Rob's plan was to trot west until the higher ground offered an easy route into Pleasant Valley. There the chestnut trees were so thick that they blocked sunlight, and squirrels could be taken almost at will. He would shoot a dozen or so and provide a meal for his family and Will Miller.

  Of course, he would also keep his eye peeled for sign. Large game animals came through on occasion, and venison or bear was always welcome.

  Quehana usually followed trails during his scouting. Anyone wishing to move rapidly chose trails, and hostile war parties would as well. Because he had lived on the land for most of his life, Rob knew each bend, rise, or rivulet crossing as well as he knew his house floor. Anything unusual would catch his eye, and he knew where to look to detect a moccasin imprint at a ford or where toes would dig in during a climb.

>   As did the Indian warrior, Rob Shatto ran almost everywhere he went. He moved at an easy trot that might better have been called a glide because his upper body seemed barely to rise and fall. He carried his rifle as warriors had carried lances and bows for a thousand generations. Gripped in his left hand, the longrifle hung at arm's length so that there was no strain on his bicep, and the muzzle stayed pointed ahead. Held at the balance, just forward of the trigger guard, Rob could shoulder the rifle, come to full cock, and fire almost before a foot struck the ground.

  Quehana's was the Indian warrior's pace. It was the steady, ground-consuming trot that swiftly moved war parties along the great warrior paths joining one another and crisscrossing the Endless Hills. The pace was gentle and could be maintained day upon day as the runner eased or increased his effort to arrive at his destination unsweated and prepared to fight.

  The cleverness in warrior running was to choose a speed that never forced the lungs to struggle. If breathing became short, the pace was instantly reduced, and if hills were steep, the run was abandoned and the warriors walked. A war party, or Quehana, knew that they might fight at any instant, and to be physically drained could mean defeat. It was equally recognized that defeat in battle usually meant death. Quehana placed importance on his running.

  Although his eyes roamed, Rob's thoughts were on the hopes of Tree Shadow. The father wished him to move a son's mind from the ideal of The Warrior and into another course. That the Shadow had come to him was an honor that Quehana did not hold lightly, and even the idea of such an effort was special because few elders of any of the tribes would have considered the possibility of altering a youth's direction. Whites turned to ministers or perhaps military leaders to inspire their youths. Perhaps to Tree Shadow he, Quehana, was a frontier equivalent.

  Rob had agreed to try, but no immediate methods had leaped into his mind. How did a man turn a boy's thoughts from the greatest enemy-killer who had ever lived to . . . To what? This scout into the next valley would be time used to discover a plan.

  Rob had told Tree Shadow to send the boy on the second full moon. That was more than a month away. In choosing that time there had been reasoning. Blue Moccasin would come from the city about then, and if assistance were needed or if he was still without a scheme, Blue would surely produce one.

  Blue Moccasin, a half-white message carrier of the Delaware nation regularly fled the strictures of his wealthy Philadelphia life to breathe again the beguiling scents of the Endless Hills. When he returned to the mountains, Blue Moccasin often lived within the lodge of Quehana.

  In the city, Blue was James Cummens, and he managed family businesses, but in his youthful years he had visited the villages bearing his forked stick delivering verbal messages and telling tales. It was Blue who had befriended the Shawnee captive Jack Elan, and it was Blue who had traveled beside The Warrior when he went among the Huron. Clever in both white and Delaware worlds was Blue Moccasin, and Rob knew his friend could strengthen his plan.

  Pleasant Valley lay in higher country than Rob's notch along the Little Buffalo's tributary, and when he reached the top of Limestone Ridge, he could look almost flat across the chestnut-filled hollow. When cleared, the earth of Pleasant Valley would raise rich crops, but the great trees and their monstrous stumps would demand endless labor. Rob was pleased that the valley would long remain undisturbed.

  He paused to plan his squirrel hunt, and even as his eyes scouted, the break in rhythm allowed his mind to journey. A long leafed plant that some mixed in their kinnikinnick grew nearby. When smoked, the dried leaves drifted minds, and time passed with exaggerated slowness. Rob did not like the effect, but the memory pursed his lips, and the first glimmerings of a scheme began tender growth.

  For the squirrels, Quehana had chosen a light rifle. The tiny ball would not carry far, and unless perfectly placed it would not be a man-killer. For squirrel shooting, the rifle was perfect because it was accurate and used an absolute minimum of expensive lead and powder.

  Gunpowder was more troublesome than lead. All decent powder came from Europe, the best from France and the next best from England.

  Except for the expense, Rob Shatto had no difficulty with his gunpowder supply because the ships of James Cummens delivered to his father's Philadelphia warehouses a large part of the powder entering the colony. Blue Moccasin saw to unfailing resupply for his friend on the frontier.

  Rob regularly snarled at Blue about his high gunpowder prices, but in actuality recognized that his friend always reduced the cost below anything comparable from traders who roamed the Endless Hills or from businesses in Carlisle.

  A soft breeze blew from him toward the chestnut woods, so Quehana would circle and hunt from the far side. The wind, blowing from the trees toward him, would help mask his movements. Each shot would send his quarry into hiding, and the closest would remain unmoving long after Rob reloaded. Only a few more steps would expose other squirrels at their leaping and scurrying, and another target would appear.

  The squirrels were there, and Rob began knocking them from their lofty perches. A small ball popped into a squirrel destroyed little meat, and the lead could often be recovered. Rob's sights were extremely fine and allowed the necessary close holding. Using a heavy ball, a squirrel could be barked, which meant exploding the tree bark beneath the small animal’s body so that it blew him from the tree and usually killed. Rob had fired in contests that allowed only barking, but the competitions were such powder and ball wasters that they were not common.

  The light rifle had no recoil, and Rob reloaded quickly with his eyes roaming for intruders that he would wish to see first. Hostiles were gone from the land-most believe—but Quehana was not entirely convinced, and to be caught with an empty rifle or surprised and surrounded by the wrong tribesmen could be fatal.

  Choosing large and fat animals that carried more meat, Rob took his dozen squirrels. He missed only once, and most of his lead would be recoverable to go into his melting pot to be used again. The shooting had not been long, but Quehana moved quickly away from his own noise into a stand from which he could watch the chestnut woods. If anyone was about, at least anyone with evil intentions, they would soon appear.

  He judged the height of the sun and believed he had daylight left to ease back along Limestone Ridge until well past his lodge. If enemies planned a night or early morning raid against him, they would likely lay-up on the north side of that ridge. A final check would not hurt, and he could think more about Young Son’s conversion to . . . Quehana had no instant revelations.

  The fact that Young-Son was white intrigued the frontiersman. There were many like that within Indian lands. Adopted into families, they knew only the tribal language and believed themselves as much Delaware or Seneca or Huron as their tribal brothers and sisters. Adopted girls became women, bore children to men of the tribes, and the boy-children grew and chose women of their villages.

  Where the white Indians had come from would only rarely be discovered, and their presence did not always mean massacre and captivity. As Quehana himself had chosen, white men sometimes elected to live among the tribes.

  Rob Shatto had no Indian blood, although many believed otherwise. He was Scots by birth, and raised by his grandfather, he had learned the gunsmith's trade. Upon his only relative’s death, young Rob had been faced with confiscation of their possessions and almost certain confinement within an orphanage.

  Rob Shatto had loaded the gunsmithing wagon and fought his way across Kittatinny Mountain to drop into the Indian lands of Sherman’s Valley. There he had survived and finally prospered. His plan had been to live forever at the headwaters of Clark's Run, the small branch of Little Buffalo Creek where his home now nestled.

  Then, the Delaware had been strong between the mountains, but the land was sold by chiefs and sachems to the whites, and the Indians had drifted away. Now, few remained, and those who hung on were without villages and the societies which had made them vigorous and secure.

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p; Rob Shatto remained. He enlarged his holdings and paid for them in the white manner. He returned to many of the ways of his youth and lived more white than Indian, but he chose carefully and believed he had retained the best of both worlds.

  To his west, the Robinsons maintained a fort that had withstood Delaware and Shawnee attacks during the French War. The Robinsons had suffered grievously but had survived. Now Robert Robinson, the only family member that Quehana considered truly capable, roamed the forests as he did, watching and listening, striving always to see before being seen. Both men had learned in a dangerous school, and Rob and Robert knew they were the only barrier standing between their people and hostiles that might choose them as likely targets.

  In a sense, Robert Robinson guarded the Shatto's western approaches. Rob, in turn, protected the Robinsons from attack from the east and from the Juniata River. If trouble came, each would warn the other. Among the Robinson cabins, horns would blow, and the people would gather at the fort. At the Shattos, the shutters would slam and the extra rifles would be prepared. To enemies, fighting the families would be much like wrestling porcupines.

  Of course, there was peace everywhere and the days of raids and wars had passed. Everyone in Philadelphia probably accepted that, and it appeared to Rob Shatto that most of Carlisle believed the same. Quehana knew better.

  Rob remembered the Shawnee who had escaped when he leaped into their camp beyond the summit of Tuscarora Mountain. He had killed the others and split the Shawnee’s face from forehead to chin, but he could not follow the wounded raider’s maddened plunge down the mountain. That enemy would not forget. There were others who had never met Quehana but also would not pause at the safety totems the Delaware had placed around his lodge.

  Quehana scouted, and he would likely scout long after the last Indian lodge had moved beyond the distant Ohio River.