Song of Blue Moccasin (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 3

  Men were little different. They, too, avoided rising ground when possible and, if desiring concealment, skirted ridgelines. Men crossed streams at shallow fords, preferably on stepping-stones. Men moved to and from definite destinations, usually the places of other men.

  When Rob Shatto scouted the land, he did not roam randomly. Ancient Indian paths were his major routes. Although most were overgrown, their traces were clear to his woodsman's eye. Invaders would choose such passages because they were invariably the shortest, driest, and least arduous.

  Recent passage on a path was easily read. Moccasins or boots pressed the under footing. Leaves were turned or briars were pushed aside. To a borderer, such scars were as clear as signposts.

  When he scouted, Rob examined the forest for the indentation of a final hop to land, or even the rounded hollows of water drops where a forder had passed. At the natural ridge crossings, he ranged more widely because clever intruders would depart a path before reaching a summit. By passing within woods well off the usual crossing, they might remain undetected.

  Rob Shatto did not seek signs of friendly passage. Those marks were plentiful. With the exception of a few game hunters, they followed well-trod routes between obvious destinations. If they camped, those passers-by built large fires and made no efforts to disguise their presence. Almost to a man they wore boots or poor imitations of Indian moccasins. Rob saw their traces and moved on.

  Occasionally, there was Indian sign. Little of it held suspicion. Those Indians still about had been whitened. They stomped through a woods as clumsily as their white neighbors.

  The Indian Chit-Chit village on Cisna Run had withered to a few scraggly shacks. Other local Indians lived lonely in remote cabins. Isolated from their tribal societies and excluded from white associations, Rob wondered why they did not pack up and leave for good. Whites had come to stay. Indian life held no promise in the land between the mountains.

  The sign Rob Shatto sought would be faint indeed. Fires, if any, would be tiny with sticks pointed inward so that only their tips burned. Passage would show haste with loping-distance between moccasin imprints. If many had passed, Rob would sprint for home with worry in his breast. A single scout or a trio of such would put him on the scent. Hostiles were unlikely to pass the Little Buffalo undetected.

  Rob Shatto had grown among the Delaware. He fought the mixed bands that swept the valleys in the French and Indian War and again during Pontiac's uprising. Then, Rob had killed, and his people had survived.

  Now the tribes again stirred and rumbled in discontent. Shatto respected their abilities. If they chose to come, war parties could be into the settlements as quickly as bobcats among chickens.

  Others hoped for peace, but Rob Shatto worked at security. His guns were ready, and brush was cleared from his door.

  +++

  Descending the north ridge, Rob heard Flat call out in Delaware, and the unexpected tongue slid him into cover behind a tree. His thumb poised above his rifle's hammer before Becky's laughter reassured him. Even then, he moved forward cautiously, eyes and ears working, his nose testing the wind.

  Closer in, he again heard the lilt of Delaware, this time a male voice. Too far to make out the words, he moved more swiftly.

  Suddenly shocked, Rob almost halted. From near his house the powerful rumble of The Warrior's voice from long ago said again, "Quehana the Arrowmaker." Flat spoke excitedly, and Shikee, the Shikee of his youth, said clearly, "Quehana comes, or else a dying bear staggers through the forest."

  What in hell? For a long instant Rob had no answer. Then he knew, and his smile was broad. Blue Moccasin, carrier of messages, imitator of the sender displayed his skill.

  Rob felt himself relax. Damn, for a moment there he'd thought the old ones had come for him. The Warrior was planted in the family burying plot, and Shikee was long gone west to the Shining Mountains.

  Rob experienced no chagrin that Blue Moccasin had heard him coming. He had been simply walking, and a real Indian should hear. It came to him that none of his people would have noticed anything. Blue had spoken in Delaware, so they probably still didn't know anyone was close.

  Rob wished for the millionth time that he could force a little woods lore into the local men. Unless antlers had a dozen points, his damned bunch could hardly tell a doe from a buck.

  By all the holies, it would be good to see Blue Moccasin. Rob hurried his pace a little.

  +++

  Rob came out of the trees, and James Cummens thought he hadn't gained a pound or slowed a step. Rob hurdled a small rivulet, and Cummens marveled anew at how so large a man could move so gracefully. The Warrior had been like that. Funny how Rob Shatto and The Warrior got mixed in his mind. Both had been awesome killers. Each had been the friend of Blue Moccasin. If they had met in combat, whew, that would have given a story to sing at village fires.

  Rob eased to a halt and gave Becky a touch before turning to Cummens. When he spoke, he leaned across his longrifle and acted as though seasons had not passed since their last meeting on the Little Buffalo.

  "Blue." Then Rob's lips smiled. "Thought for a minute The Warrior had come back for me."

  Cummens slouched his body and leaned against his seat his face lengthy and solemn. When he spoke, his voice was that of E'shan, the point maker, and he said, "Behold my grandson has been honored by The Warrior. Now he is Quehana, the Arrowmaker."

  Flat whimpered in appreciation, and the message carrier's ability to imitate flicked the heart of Rob Shatto. Goose bumps rose, and for an instant he was again a boy, with the young squaws Fat and Flat covering their mouths in awe and Shikee grinning as though Shawnee had stretched his mouth. Rob shook his mind clear and stepped to take Cummens' hand.

  "You're too good at that, Blue. Damned if I couldn't see old E'shan instead of you sitting there. Come to think of it, I'd trade you for E'shan any day."

  +++

  It was good to be in the north valley. Even the fire smoke smelled cleaner. Blue stretched luxuriously and propped his feet on a convenient log seat.

  The night was unseasonably warm for early April. So they gathered outside around Rob's fire pit. Too early for bugs, still cold enough to enjoy a hefty blaze, conditions were right for storytelling and catching up on gossip and remembrances.

  For a while all the Shattos grouped close to listen, but men who worked hard bedded early, and before the moon was high, only Cummens, Rob, Becky and Flat remained.

  Then the men fell naturally into the Delaware tongue, the voice of their youth, the speech that brought life to days flushed with deeds too close for English words. Becky could understand most of it, and Flat sank comfortably into the sounds of her language.

  Flat stitched at blued leather Cummens had brought from Philadelphia. She complained to herself that, given warning, she would have prepared softer material, better dyed, but she felt close to her work making natural things for the men of her lodge.

  Blue Moccasin asked for a hand of moccasins. Flat doubted he had come to the Little Buffalo only to gain footwear. Plainly, the message carrier expected to travel far.

  Quehana knew it, too, Flat could tell. Flat could predict Quehana's thought, guess his direction, and sense his expectation. She had known Quehana since he came almost dying to their lodge, a mere stick of a white child, hardly worth nursing to health. She and Fat had saved the boy. She had seen him become great in the Delaware tribe and renowned even among the Iroquois nations. If she had been given a son, Flat was certain he would have been tall, powerful, and wise like Quehana. As the Great Spirit had not blessed her, Quehana became her son, and Quehana would soon inquire about Blue Moccasin's plan.

  Before the others departed, Quehana had told again of his fight when the Shawnee of Two Nose had attacked the Shatto house.

  From within, Becky had shot a warrior peering down the chimney. The men had held the attackers at bay, while without, Quehana had silently killed them until survivors looked about, saw that they had become few, and realize
d their failure.

  Then Quehana had paused in his story to describe how Two Nose, planning to escape and come another time, had hidden in a thicket. But deeper in the thicket, crouched Flat, and she had driven her knife solidly into the body of Two Nose. In agony, Two Nose had risen and the longrifle of Quehana had instantly taken his spirit.

  Proud was the story and exciting was the telling. Quehana did not forget, and where others might have skipped across a squaw's part, Quehana polished and embellished until the story shown, and Flat could glory in the memory of a time long past.

  +++

  When he was not himself talking, Rob Shatto thought about James Cummens. The man required thinking about. As Blue Moccasin, he had dashed among the tribes for more than a decade. Then he had turned away to become a white captain of industry. Cummens' ships plied oceans serving Cummens' interests across the world, perhaps even to China. Rob reminded himself to ask about that.

  They met on occasion. On increasingly rare trips to Philadelphia, Rob and Becky stayed with the Cummens. For a full winter, Becky had nursed James' dying wife. Cummens had sent his son to live for a summer with Rob-to learn firsthand the frontier life. And, Cummens came to the Little Buffalo himself. He would arrive in his fancy city clothes astride a horse handsome beyond the ordinary. A change of clothing and, chameleon-like, Blue Moccasin would appear.

  Blue Moccasin of the liquid tongue and winning ways. The message carrier was especially popular because he could deliver information in tone and even the body posturings of the senders-the same carrier who had announced The Warrior's magical appearance at the heart of the Huron's chief village.

  Magnificent had been those days. Memorable were the feats told again when Quehana and Blue Moccasin met. Yet, this time there was more; Rob could sense it. Blue had something brewing, and he had come to discuss it.

  What could Cummens have that might include Rob Shatto? Surely not business . . . but Indians? It could be Indians. Rob felt his senses keen, and the scents of woodsmoke and forest seemed suddenly sharpened. Without awareness, Rob's fingers touched the butt of the two barreled pistol sheathed snugly at the small of his back.

  Cummens switched to English. He used Rob's white name and divorced their talk from the romance of the Delaware tongue. This would be white talk. It had to do with white ways and required white consideration.

  Cummens said, "The revolution is not going well, Rob. George Washington is barely holding on, and a new British general is coming, one that is said to be set on fighting and winning."

  Shatto nodded agreement and understanding.

  Cummens went on. "Washington expects to keep fighting and fading away, hitting here and then there. That won't whip the British, but as long as no colonies give up, it will keep the revolt going.

  "Mostly, Washington and the Congress are waiting for the French to join in on our side. If they do, and that appears likely, we have a real chance of winning. Instead of us giving up out of exhaustion and frustration, the British parliament could be willing to just let us go. Anyway, that is a real hope."

  Rob nodded and stirred a few fire sticks, waiting for Cummens to maneuver to where he was heading.

  "There is a danger that could lick us good, split us wide open, and send half of our army flying home. If it came about, we wouldn't last until European help came, and we couldn't ever get the soldiers back."

  Rob understood. "You mean having the tribes come down hard on the frontiers."

  "That is it, Rob. If the borders flame, our best will go home to help their families. Not that I would blame them. You know Indian war, the slaughter could be terrible, and it could run deeper than it did back in Pontiac's War.

  "The last time, the Iroquois stayed fairly calm, yet the massacres swept through here and almost to Carlisle. If the Iroquois poured a few thousand warriors onto us, the killing would be beyond enduring. It could break us, Rob."

  Shatto shifted and again poked at the fire before he spoke. "Of course, you haven't mentioned anything I haven't thought about, Blue. That's why I scout. It's why our water barrels are full and our doors are heavily barred at night.

  "I look for smoke across the ridges and tracks on the paths. The Iroquois' southern door is at Tioga. As the crow flies, that's only a hundred and twenty or so miles-could be a hundred or eighty using the Towanda path. What's that for good runners? Not more than five days.

  "There are forts in the Wyoming Valley, and Sunbury should delay any attacks from the north. West of here, war parties would find a lot of pickings before they got this far, so we should get warning, but trying to outguess Indians just isn't the best way. One brave with an old grudge could bring fighters straight to the Little Buffalo without disturbing a leaf on the way.

  "That describes our situation, and it's the one I have to worry about. None of which answers the problem of what most will do if all of the tribes come out."

  Rob let the silence grow while he thought. "Facts are, the British are among the Iroquois like fleas on a dog. Doubt we've got anybody speaking for our side."

  He caught a quirk of Cummens' lips and guessed with a flash of certainty what was coming.

  "Holy hell, Blue. You're figuring to go up there and council with 'em."

  4 Proposal

  Cummens understood Rob's obvious consternation. Blue Moccasin had been long with the whites. That would be known. Whether anyone would listen to his words after so many seasons of absence was uncertain.

  There was always turmoil along the borders, but roiled by the white wars, tribes appeared ready to explode. War leaders had unusual power in confused times, and young men were tempted by the excitements of the warpath. Few might appreciate a voice of reason and conciliation. Among the Iroquois, real disaster might lie in wait.

  Cummens answered Rob's startled speculation, his words soft, his smile ironic. "You see through me easily, Rob."

  He removed humor from his voice. "My plan is simple enough. As Blue Moccasin I will travel to villages. I will counsel with anyone willing to listen. My message will be of peace-to let the whites wage their own war."

  Rob's doubts were plain. "It's awful late, Blue. Even the Tuscarora are talking war. Old Stuttering John, one of their main chiefs, was in Shamokin-Sunbury, that is-maybe a moon past. He was shaking rattles and making threats. Villagers ran him and his people out, which didn't please him much. John went up to Esther's Town and hasn't been seen since.

  "Point I'm trying to make is that you'll be talking through smoke laid down by that Mohawk Joseph Brant and John Butler, the British agent. They've been waving hatchets for more than a year.

  "Hell, Blue, it's not unlikely they'd tie you to a stake as an example of how ferocious they are."

  Rob exaggerated to make his point, but Blue Moccasin would be bucking powerful currents. If they planted their feet, Shatto doubted the Iroquois could be turned by Blue or anyone else.

  Still, Blue Moccasin had a way about him. Once he had accomplished amazing feats. Perhaps he could again. Old chiefs would remember that it had been Blue Moccasin who had come from the Pistecataway country to warn them of a Cherokee invasion. Blue had been only a stripling then, but the Iroquois confederacy owed him for that and other deeds.

  A problem was, Blue was not a fighting man, and when trouble was brewing, war societies were listened to more than their share.

  Chiefs could ask, "What does Blue Moccasin really know of war?" Blue would have to admit that he had never engaged in it. The power of his arguments could be weakened.

  Cummens said, "Whether chances are good or bad, I'm still going, Rob. If the Iroquois stayed neutral for even a year it could tip the scales for our revolution."

  "Well, the Shawnee and Delaware are already raiding along the Monongahela River, Blue."

  "True, which makes my task more urgent."

  Driven by the importance of the talk, Cummens rose to pace beyond the fire.

  "I have the good of the Iroquois in mind as well, Rob. If they rise against us, we wi
ll surely turn and crush them once and for all. This is not the 1760s. Whites are far too many, and the tribes are not the fighters they once were.

  "I do not imply that the Iroquois would not be powerful. They would probably win most battles, but in the end, they would be driven. It is a matter of overwhelming white numbers and our white determination to have it all. We would just keep coming until the Indians were gone."

  "We'll do that to them, anyway, Blue."

  "That could be different, Rob. The races live at peace side by side in a few places."

  "Mighty few."

  Cummens chose to consider a moment before continuing. Then his voice lightened, as though more certain of his direction.

  "Anyway, I am going. So my next problem is to do it right." He gestured at himself.

  "Look at me. Do I look like Blue Moccasin? The answer is clearly, No. I look white, I think white; I even smell white."

  Rob's teeth shown through the dark, "Well, there is some city stink when you are upwind, Blue."

  Cummens chuckled, "I've got to shed it, Rob. I've got to become the way I used to be."

  Rob said, "Getting you into a loincloth and leggings isn't hard. Flat can fix your hair. Won't take long to make a finger drum like you used to carry. A few scrubs in the creek and a wiping or two with watercress will clear your hide. Then you can sit for a night on the fire's smoky side. You'll look Injun again in no time."

  Cummens looked his amusement, then again grew serious. "That is the easy part. The conditioning will be harder. You can still run the woods. I cannot. Yet, I should not ride a horse within the nations. Did Friendseeker or The Warrior travel horseback? No, nor did I in those days. It must be so again."