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

  His heart thumped mightily. This was Quehana? He no longer wondered why his father spoke so often of the killer of Shawnee.

  Young-Son managed a croak of greeting as a hand larger than any he had ever seen gripped his shoulder. The restrained power behind the gentle grip of greeting reminded Young-Son of a mountain cat's strength that could swat a deer to the earth with a single blow.

  Quehana spoke other words, and Young-Son knew he answered, but the memories were instantly confused, and he could only hope that he did not sound foolish.

  The presence of Quehana enveloped him as would a thick mist, but he did not feel the deadly menace that surrounded his memory of The Warrior. Quehana's spirit was one of confidence of unmatchable strength and ability. How the Shawnee must have trembled before Quehana's wrath.

  Somehow, they were moving along the path, and his stride stretched to hold him beside the giant warrior. The boy was pleased that Quehana's moccasins were Delaware and that he wore them with strong lacings about the ankle for traveling—as did Young-Son. Quehana wore only a loincloth of warrior cut that was short in front and back. The tomahawk at his waist was as large and heavy as Young-Son remembered The Warrior's.

  Quehana carried his long gun in his left hand, and in the small of his back a pistol was holstered. The Arrowmaker also wore a knife, and a bag lay on a hip with the strap crossing a shoulder. There were also two powder horns, one large and the other very small. Young-Son had seen that before, but his brother had only one horn, and he had never learned why two were needed.

  Quehana's voice remained deep and strong, but his questions were common and easily answered. The Arrowmaker asked, "Is Tree Shadow well?"

  The son reported that he was.

  Was the trip down the river uneventful?

  Young-Son said that it had been.

  "Were there any signs of hostiles found?"

  Young-Son was startled, but pleased that Quehana would question him on a point of such importance. He stated that he had found none.

  Ahead, the largest lodge that Young-Son had ever seen squatted against the earth. It was even larger than his father had described. The stone and wood lodge could have held a longhouse of people, and Young-Son saw that the roof was made of clay pieces each shaped to fit the others. Fire arrows would not threaten the lodge of the Arrowmaker.

  Quehana led his guest directly to the lodge, and when he stepped within, Young-Son felt the closeness tighten around him as if he had entered a cave in the earth.

  At first he could see little, but as his eyes adjusted a squaw approached and spoke to him in Delaware, which he heard with gratitude because there was also the incomprehensible chatter of children, and a white woman conversed with them in a tongue foreign to Young-Son.

  Quehana spoke to the woman in the strange language, and she came close to smile upon him and touch his face with a soft and motherly hand. Young-Son decided she must be a woman of Quehana. The Delaware that Quehana called Flat would be a grandmother or perhaps a close relative.

  In moments they were again outside, and the Arrowmaker motioned them toward an earth dam that held back the stream and made a large pond just as beaver did. Quehana made the motions of counciling, and Young-Son was about to seat himself when Quehana stiffened and pointed toward a distant wood line far beyond the pond waters. Young-Son's eyes sought, but found nothing.

  Quehana said, "There is our supper, Young-Son." His rifle rose and touched his shoulder. Its bark jerked at Young-Son's already taut nerves, but whatever Quehana shot at remained unseen.

  As he reloaded, Quehana called, and the squaw called Flat hurried toward the distant place Quehana's pointed finger indicated.

  Far beyond where Young-Son had been looking the squaw paused, but Quehana motioned her even further. Then again, further. And once more—much further. The woman's figure was growing small when The Arrowmaker signaled to look around.

  Young-Son knew that she would find nothing, but suddenly Flat pointed and her call came to them. She disappeared for an instant, and the boy could not imagine what she might have discovered.

  Then she again came into view holding a rabbit by its long ears. At least Young-Son thought it must be a rabbit; the distance was so great he could not be sure.

  They sat, legs crossed, backs erect in the position of council and waited for Flat's return. Young-Son could not believe. The distance was so great that no one he knew could even have seen a rabbit much less kill it.

  Yet, Flat laid it before them, freshly killed with a huge hole bored through a front shoulder. The bullet had exited near the middle of the rabbit's far side, and Flat complained that the shot should have entered further back and not ruined so much of the shoulder meat. Young-Son listened in awe. Quehana noted that the rabbit had been moving, and that it was a long shot. Flat merely sniffed.

  As she moved away, Flat smiled to herself. Clever was Quehana, and hooked like a fish was Young-Son. When she had marched the great distance she had removed the live rabbit from its cage and pierced it with a long metal spike hidden there for the purpose. An Indian boy would not be tricked by a long-dead animal. All of the act had to look genuine, and Young-Son could not deny his eyes. Impressed was the son of Tree Shadow.

  As the boy had entered the house, Blue Moccasin had slipped out the rear. Flat listened for his horse. The next part was to be Blue Moccasin's, and Flat had no doubt that the skilled message carrier would further influence the boy.

  Young-Son had been torn between watching the skill and method of Quehana's reloading and the return of the rabbit. He had often seen an older brother's gun and once had watched him shoot, but that performance had been like a child with his tiny bow if compared to Quehana's gun which could kill too far even to see.

  When they sat in council, Quehana began to speak about the reason for Young-Son's visit, but even as he started, a thunder of horse hooves took their attention, and to Young-Son's delight and astonishment a magnificent horse with a small rider thundered from behind the ridge and drove hard almost into them. The boy was prepared to leap aside in fear of being trampled, but Quehana barely seemed to notice. The rider, a white man with Delaware braids hauled his handsome animal to a halt and allowed it to prance in place while he studied the pair waiting on the ground.

  The rider hailed in Delaware, "Waugh, Quehana. Who is your visitor?" There was some sort of special music in the man's voice that pleased the ear of Young-Son.

  Truly, this was a miraculous day. Never had Young-Son seen such a horse. The traders' animals that he had seen were scrawny with sunken backs and drooping heads. This horse glared at them, and flared his nostrils, and stomped his hooves in challenge. Oh, how he would ride upon such an animal. His imagination saw him racing into their village upon such a horse. How the people would stare and the squaws and maidens would cover their mouths in excitement, for no one he knew had a horse of any kind.

  Quehana said, "Step down, James," and the rider slipped from the animal's back to land facing them while holding his mount in place by a pair of hide straps that traveled to the horse's mouth. Everything about the scene seemed to be burning itself forever into the mind of Young-Son.

  The Arrowmaker said, "This is Young-Son, whose father is Tree Shadow of the Delaware. Young-Son, this is James Cummens of the large village of Philadelphia near the great water that is salt."

  James Cummens raised a hand in greeting and sank into sitting between them. The boy was surprised to see that the white man wore blue moccasins. Most whites covered their feet in heavy and stiff leather, and their tracks were easily picked out.

  Quehana took up the talk. "James, Young-Son has come to speak with me of his future. His father believes that a youth should hear the words of other than his own people so that he may choose wisely."

  Young-Son was a bit baffled by the concept. To his mind, a boy became a man, and he hunted for his family and if necessary fought enemies to protect them. A few, like The Warrior, were trained specially as fighters and did little mo
re than that, but Young-Son had only the example of The Warrior for there were no others.

  James Cummens, the name rang strangely in Young-Son's mind, nodded understanding and sighed before speaking.

  "Tree Shadow is wise, Quehana. The old ways are passing, and all must be one with the new or fall away as if they were leaves in winter. Gone are the great Delaware villages, gone are the proud societies that grew hunters, warriors, and counselors. Dead are the leaders who made the Delaware great, and small indeed are our numbers."

  Our numbers? Was James Cummens a Delaware? There was something familiar about the man, something . . . But Young-Son had no time to consider for the conversation moved on.

  Quehana was nodding agreement.

  "Perhaps you can help us in this, James. You are from the white side even more than I, and you may have things to say that we might not consider."

  Young-Son's mouth quirked just a hint at the thought that someone living as white would help in their council, and Rob and Cummens caught it. Both were pleased for it would help catch the youth off balance.

  James Cummens spoke. "Once the deciding would have been simple. A youth could become a hunter or a warrior. There were no other choices, and rare were those who could truly follow the warrior trail."

  He added thoughtfully, "Few indeed, for that trail is paved with jagged stones and briars line its edges. Blood and pain mark the warrior paths, and hunger, exhaustion, and too often failure plague those who attempt it."

  Young-Son wished to mention The Warrior who had never faced defeat, but this was the talk of men, and boys did not enter. Fortunately, Quehana spoke for him.

  "Perhaps Young-Son has heard of The Warrior who fought a thousand battles and never lost?"

  Young-Son's heart leaped, and he hated his squeaky voice as it answered. "I have sat with The Warrior, Quehana, and once when he visited our lodge I touched his tomahawk as he rested."

  The boy's eyes drifted in memory. "The Warrior slept erect at the fire of our lodge, and I crept close until I could reach out to one of the tomahawks at his waist, but as I touched, his grip closed about my fingers, and I feared they would break, but he quickly opened his hand, and I fled back to my robes. The Warrior's eyes did not open and his breathing did not change. Perhaps The Warrior did not need to see with his eyes."

  Both men nodded solemnly, and Rob was pleased at the perfect opening the boy had provided.

  "Perhaps then, Young-Son has heard the story of how The Warrior traveled in the bitter cold of the frost father into the distant lands of the Huron without cloak or blanket where he magically appeared in the center of the great Huron village to council peace between Huron and Iroquois?"

  Young-Son nodded vigorously, for that mighty journey was a story favored in many lodges among the Iroquois and the Delaware.

  Quehana continued, "It is not often mentioned, but during that season's turning a companion traveled with The Warrior. That counselor and friend stood beside The Warrior at a hundred fires and sat at his shoulder when he met with the small leaders of the Iroquois Nations. Only that single counselor was friend to The Warrior. Only that special message carrier of the Delaware could slap the shoulder of The Warrior or pretend to wrestle with a friend so powerful that he could break a bear's back with a single blow."

  The boy's mind staggered at the visions, and some small memories of hearing of such a companion returned. To be a friend to The Warrior, to treat him as a brother, to joke or wrestle with the killer of hundreds of enemy, Young-Son was lost in the imagining.

  The Arrowmaker's voice brought him back.

  "Deadly was The Warrior, and none others dared approach him, yet this message carrier, barely more than a youth, ran beside the fiercest of fighters. They camped together and spoke of many things. When The Warrior was terribly wounded it was the message carrier who treated the wounds with special herbs and pine pitch.

  "And it was on the journey among the Hurons that a cowardly traitor sprang upon The Warrior and drove a hatchet into his chest. Have you heard that tale, Young-Son?"

  Young-son was quick to answer. "I have seen the wound, Quehana. The hatchet struck on the muscles of The Warrior's chest right here." His hand marked the spot on his own chest, and he saw James Cummens nod as if he agreed.

  Quehana in turn nodded. "I remembered the story when you mentioned the strength of The Warrior's hand. You will recall that the mightiest of fighters did not instantly kill the coward who struck the blow. In the Huron camp where he had spoken for peace he did not wish to kill, but he squeezed the hand of the coward until the bones crushed into bits, and then he squeezed the bits until they burst through the coward's skin. He held the broken hand close and forced his enemy's head near the terrible wound. Then he chose a flaming brand from the fire and pressed it into his wound until the blood ceased flowing, and the smoke from the burning flesh blew into the coward's nostrils. Stunned were the Huron for none had seen such courage. The Warrior flung away the coward, and he strode into the winter forest wearing only his loincloth and without other covering."

  The telling of the story brought goose bumps to the skin of Young-Son, and he again saw James Cummens nodding agreement. Truly The Warrior was known even among the white peoples of the east.

  Quehana again spoke. "But, The Warrior's wound was massive and it could not heal itself. Fortunately, his companion, the carrier of messages was nearby, and The Warrior went to him. The message carrier sealed the wound in pitch and sheltered and fed The Warrior until the flesh again healed. Then they ran south together for many suns until they were among the Iroquois people."

  The boy was entranced, for he had not heard that part of the honored tale.

  The Arrowmaker asked, "Do you know the name of the message carrier that was closest friend to The Warrior, Young-Son?"

  The boy did not.

  Quehana's voice was reverent, and it sent chills along the spine of Young-Son.

  "The message carrier of the Delaware has always been known as Blue Moccasin because that is what he wears. Blue Moccasin, brother to The Warrior, now sits beside Young-Son."

  The mind of Young-Son staggered. Now he could remember hearing of the famed carrier of great messages called Blue Moccasin. He had not often listened because his thoughts had always been on The Warrior himself, but here, he, Young-Son, sat at council with the closest companion of the mighty killer and protector of the Delaware people. Now he knew the meaning of the blue moccasins almost touching his own. Young-Son felt tears at the corners of his eyes, his body twitched, and his heart thundered with the honor of it.

  Chapter Six

  Young-Son sat among heroes. In his dreaming he sometimes came upon honored names, but in his real life he had never expected to sit with them or to be treated almost as an equal in their conversations.

  Among stories, the mighty Quehana mentioned daring battles against enemies of the people, and when prompted by Blue Moccasin he recounted his bursting upon the five raiding Shawnee as they knelt by their fire.

  To aid his desperate run across Tuscarora Mountain, Quehana had not carried a long gun, but his pistol had killed twice, and his tomahawk had taken two more. Then he had hung the scalped dead from a tree limb that hung over the mountain trail and hacked his arrowhead mark into the tree trunk. Shawnee had never again come against Quehana.

  They walked along a field edge where Quehana grew corn in abundance that Young-Son had never seen, and Blue Moccasin spoke in ideas that the boy had never considered, and they roused and inspired his thinking.

  Blue asked, "Do you understand the mind, Young-Son?"

  The boy was unsure of what Blue Moccasin meant by the mind.

  Blue removed a container of metal from a pocket in his white clothing, and the top magically opened but remained fastened to the container at one side. Young-Son longed to examine the marvelous device to see how it was made.

  The message carrier plucked a large bug from a stem and placed it in the box.

  He said, "You have
seen the skull of a man, haven't you, Young-son?" Everyone had, for the dead were as common as the living, and their bones could be found in many burials.

  "Consider then that this iron box is really a living skull within the head of a man." Blue rattled the box, and Young-Son could hear the bug inside.

  "Within the skull of living creatures is a brain. In our imaginary skull the brain is depicted by the bug." The imagery was clear.

  "The mind is not the bug. The mind is what the bug or the brain is thinking about.

  "So, like this bug, a brain can be felt and weighed in the hand. A mind has no substance, and its presence cannot be handled or felt. A mind is a thing of the spirit."

  "How then," Blue mused, "do we know a mind exists? The answer to that is the thoughts the mind places in our mouths. The brain is like a campfire. The mind is like the heat created by the fire. Unlike the fire itself, the heat cannot be grasped or seen.

  "The mind is like the heat. The mind shows itself in what we think and in our abilities to smell, to see, and to hear. Without the mind, we would not recognize what our nose, eyes, and ears tell us.

  "How do we know the messages to the mind come from the brain? Because any other part may be removed or be broken and useless, but the mind works until the brain is dead.

  "When the brain dies, the mind is gone, and the spirit of the warrior or the hunter leaves the body and ascends to the Great Spirit's final hunting lands."

  Young-Son pondered the momentous revelation. Finally, he spoke. "Is a warrior's spirit then the same as the warrior's mind?"

  Blue Moccasin nodded solemnly. "Many believe it is so. Some believe the heart is also part of the spirit. Because when it dies the brain dies, and the mind is no longer."

  Before the sun began to cool they swam in the pond. When undressing, Quehana gripped his hatchet and with a powerful overhand throw drove it deep into a sycamore trunk. He hooked his rifle's strap over the imbedded hatchet and hung pistol belt and his loincloth on top.

  Young-Son saw that beneath his loincloth Quehana's skin was as white as his own. The thought came to him that Blue Moccasin was also of a lighter shade, and the message carrier had eyes that matched the color of his moccasins. The boy wondered if Blue Moccasin, too, had been born in the white world before becoming a Delaware.