Song of Blue Moccasin (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 5

  "No, I ain't going, and you shouldn't be either. If they are a'coming, we'll need you here. We fought 'em off before, and we can do it again."

  Rob answered, "If they raid, none will likely get this far, Jack. We're agreed on that, but if the whole confederacy comes streaming down, there's no telling how far they'll carry."

  Blue added, "The Iroquois could field five thousand warriors, Jack. Some would go east against New York and the Bay Colony, but most would pour through Tioga and come right down the Susquehanna. It wouldn't be like before when one band came and another went."

  Rob picked it up again. "They'd be like a red wave, Jack. They would kill and slaughter everything and everybody until they ran out of strength. Then they would lurk around destroying whatever was left.

  "Finally, they would fade away, back into their country, but the dead would make high piles and not much would be left standing. Might be, the British could take advantage of men leaving to defend their homes and finish Washington's army."

  Elan irritably shifted about, "And you two are expecting to stop all that?" He rolled his eyes in disbelief.

  Blue said, "Think of a chunk of oak log, Jack. A pair of wedges placed just right can split it easily, then split it again and again until the log is barely kindling."

  "And you and Rob are like those wedges? Well, I've seen a lot of wedges stuck so hard that it took a lot of chopping just to get them out."

  Martha Elan said, "They're going, Jack. They don't need your discouraging."

  "I'm just trying to reason with them. God, they're more stubborn than lightning-scared oxen."

  After a pause for fire poking and flame looking, Jack said, "You've been back in these hills nearly a month now. When you figurin' to leave, Blue?"

  Blue looked to Rob for confirmation before answering. "In two suns."

  "Two suns? You're already talking like an Injun, Blue. Don't see why you can't call 'em days when you're speaking English."

  "We are trying to think Indian, Jack. We've both been away a long time."

  "Hell, you'll talk English most of the time, anyway. From what I hear, English is common with red sticks nowadays."

  Blue agreed, "You're right. The Six Nations use English as a common tongue in many councils. They don't use it like whites do, though. They still say suns for days, as you point out. Moons are months, and they usually count in fingers or hands."

  As he talked, Blue Moccasin matched his words with hand sign and was inwardly amused as Elan's eyes automatically read the movements.

  Elan shifted his subject. "Well, after you're out awhile, I'll start checking over this way. Nothing in our cabin is worth scrapping over, and if anything turns sour, we'll try to get here where we'll all be in one place.

  "I'll add your scouting to my own, Rob. We'll keep an ear out to what's happening outside the valleys as well." Elan cast a doubtful eye at the other men's sleeping places. "Doubt your boys or the others will be canny fighters, Rob."

  It was Rob's turn to sound disgusted. "Herd 'em inside with the women and kids, Jack. Better let Becky, Martha, and Flat do the shooting. George'd still be trying to reason with 'em while they were circling his skull with a scalping knife."

  Becky admonished, "You shouldn't talk like that, Rob." Her words were almost drowned by Elan's laughter.

  With only a day before departure, Rob said, "Here's something for you to carry along, Blue."

  He offered an almost tiny, single-barreled pistol. The gun had an equally miniscule powder horn and bullet pouch.

  "I made this for George when he was a boy, when I still had hopes he'd be woodsy. Drop it in your pouch, just in case."

  "It shoots a small ball, Quehana."

  "Yep, so if you use it, aim careful. I rifled the barrel, and a patched ball shoots surprisingly true. All you will need is one kind of powder for a charge and pan priming."

  "I hate carrying things I will never use. When will Blue Moccasin, counselor of peace, need to shoot anyone?"

  Rob looked concerned. "Just about any instant past Esther's Town, Blue. The old honor ethic may be about dead in the tribes. Some never had much of it, anyway.

  "Don't you plan on waltzing in there all dreamy-eyed, thinking high and fancy thoughts of honor. The Warrior could get away with it because he might also kill like he would smash a mosquito, but you're about as menacing as a lame doe."

  "I will leave the menacing to you, Quehana. You will depict the miseries of war, while I idealize the securities of peace. You can glower, flex your muscles, and flourish weapons. Ah, timid then will become the Iroquois."

  Rob's smile was serious. "Well, while I am doing the menacing, you keep a hand near that pistol and an eye out for anybody I am not impressing. Hold the muzzle tight against 'em, if you can. The powder blast will about double the effect if you let go hard against 'em."

  6 North to Tioga

  They left the Little Buffalo on a bright morning. The first leaves were open and dogwoods whitened the forest edges. Black squirrels were migrating, and their thousands of scurryings covered normal sounds.

  Their pace varied between swift walking and a gentle trot. Steady moving without approaching fatigue covered long distances most effectively. They would rise each day as strong as the previous light. When they reached Tioga, Blue and Quehana would be no more worn than on their first morning.

  The Little Buffalo trail led almost to the base of Buffalo Mountain along the Juniata. There the river lay broad and offered easy fording. Once, Delaware from Aughwich had summered nearby, but only memories now marked where Three Feathers and Friendseeker had taught the camp's children. A white settler had girdled trees in preparation for clearing, but he had departed, and the dead acre of forest stood silent with sunlight pouring through leafless branches.

  Blue crossed the Juniata while Rob watched with rifle ready. Nearly across, a huge flock of passenger pigeons flushed from the far bank. The message carrier did not wait to discover what had startled the pigeons. His bared legs drove, and he almost flew into the protection of fallen trees and spring-greened vines.

  Qehana saw Blue's form flit here and there. After an appropriate time, Blue returned to the water's edge and signaled Rob to cross. He again disappeared, and Rob knew Blue was scouting to be sure his friend's exposed crossing remained safe.

  The caution was unnecessary. There had been no hostiles between the mountains for more than a decade, but the travelers had learned difficult lessons and, further north within the Iroquois Nation, old and more dangerous conditions might appear. It was wise to practice.

  By noon of the first day, an oppressive heat settled onto the land. They stripped to the waist and traveled clad only in moccasins and loincloths, but with heavier packs. Blue Moccasin was armed with a yard-long forked stick, but Quehana bore his longrifle. Within white territory, the message carrier's stick would mean nothing, but among the Iroquois, each tool might be needed.

  Blue paused to wipe sweat from his eyes. "This is August heat, Quehana. The Great Spirit tests us."

  Rob dropped his pack and shook water from his fingers. "I haven't sweat this much in years. Strange weather, Blue."

  They studied the cloudless sky and the heat drooping foliage around them.

  "Blue said, "I think it is going to rain."

  Rob laughed. "Well, it's going to do something. Heat like this isn't ordinary." He shrugged resignedly. "At least it will make the corn jump."

  "It is going to rain."

  "All right, I agree. Do you want to turn back?"

  "Turn back to where? Of course not, but we would be wise to find shelter, if we can."

  "It just happens that I know a place."

  Blue again surveyed the perfect sky. "We have until dark."

  Rob sounded exasperated. "You're just guessing. It'll take that long for clouds to come into sight, and you figure they're just over the mountain."

  Blue was surprised. "Of course, I am guessing. Spirits never talk to me, Quehana. Do they to you?"


  "Not that I've noticed." Rob shouldered his pack and led the way;. "We'll move a little quicker. It'd be dumb to get soaked just before reaching shelter."

  Blue fell in behind. "Where are we heading?"

  "There's a cave overlooking the Susquehanna. I was there once, way back when Iroquois still claimed this ground.

  "A man, only a boy then, ran off and hid out in the cave. His mother asked me to run him down, so I did. Boy's name was Simon Girty. Real Injun even back then. All the Girtys got took in '62, or thereabout, and Simon spent two years with the Seneca. Came back mostly Injun I've heard.

  "Anyway, the cave'll be there, and it's deep and dry."

  Girty's cave lay as Rob remembered it, halfway up a cliff that rose from the water's edge. They went in carefully, rifle first in case a bear or panther had claimed residence, but the cave was unoccupied.

  Packs were dropped, and they hurried outside to gather dry sticks. Almost immediately a winter-cold blast of wind swept downriver and dropped the temperature many degrees. The wind was powerful, swirling debris within it, and accompanying clouds darkened the sun.

  Rob laughed, "I think I'll predict rain about now." Clutching an armful of dead wood, he began scrambling for cover.

  Blue said, "Oh, the mighty Quehana knows well the Earth Mother," and hurried after him.

  A few coin-size rain drops splatted against them and sprinkled the forest in a passing wave. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled to the north. A heavy scud of low clouds brought early evening.

  Blue dropped his wood beside Rob's, and they crouched in the low cave entrance watching the storm's approach.

  "The Old Ones show their fury, Quehana."

  "That's as good an explanation as any."

  Wind lashed the river creating instant white caps, and its swirl whipped another flurry of leaves and forest bits.

  Blue's voice was somber. "Whenever a storm arises, I think of men far at sea fighting sails with waves as high as mountains. What miseries a simple squall brings to them."

  "Well, I've never been to sea, and I can't imagine why anyone would go. A man's a captive on a ship. He's stuck with whatever nature sends his way. Best he can do is hang on and hope the pile of boards under him stays together."

  They heard the rain coming, and for an instant it sounded like the patter of countless black squirrel feet. Then the rain arrived in a drum roll so heavy voices had to be raised above the din.

  Water fell in sheets so solid no air seemed possible. Thunder and lightning spoke together marking the storm's center, and wind-driven spume whirled into the cave entrance forcing the watchers away.

  They built a small fire to dispel the sudden damp and arranged sleeping robes. Blue yawned expansively. "There is special comfort in a cave, Quehana. It speaks to ancient securities only our souls recall."

  Rob thought about it for a while before answering.

  "Likely you're right, Blue. Reckon we've all felt the pull of a warming fire; looking into the flames, a man feels close to generations past when all anybody had was a fire and a stone club.

  "Same with a cave. Way back, a cave was probably the only safe place to live. George Robinson said one time that all the houses and forts we build are just substitutes for good dry caves."

  Blue said, "For the Indian, the cave is only a grandfather or two removed. That is why the council fire with leaders gathered close is still important. All ancient ways have not left us. Quehana."

  The rain hung on, and they waited out a day in Girty's cave. Rob drew the charge from his rifle and thoroughly cleaned and greased the bore and other iron parts. When the rifle was reloaded, he began on his two-barreled pistol.

  With nothing better to do, Blue drew the tiny gun Rob had given him from his pouch. He sighted it out the cave entrance, and Rob suggested, "Take a shot. It'll let you discover how it feels. Nobody'll hear above the thunder anyway."

  The gun had only a small lump for a front sight and no rear sight at all. The hammer eared with a satisfying pair of clicks, and Blue held on a weed surviving in the cave entrance.

  The pistol flashed and cracked sharply, its report magnified within the cave. Dirt jumped a foot to the target's right.

  Rob said, "Assuming you held true, you'd have missed at that range. Guess you'd better hold on an enemy's left side or wait till he's a lot closer."

  "That is only twenty feet, Quehana. Much closer, and I would be too late."

  Blue held up one of the pistol's tiny balls. "A pellet like this might make whomever I shot genuinely angry."

  "I already told you that the best way is to grind the muzzle in deep as you fire. That makes a big difference."

  Blue asked innocently, "Would I still have to hold to the left?"

  Rob pretended annoyance. "Sure as I'm sitting at this fire, I will have to hold off the whole Iroquois League, while you wave your forked stick like you were fanning bugs away.

  "I don't know why I'm coming along, Blue. You can't shoot, and I heard your joints creaking coming up to this cave. You're too old for this woods travel, and those young bucks with fire in their bellies will likely use your forked stick for kindling."

  Blue Moccasin had the last word. He sighed as though in resignation. "I, too, wonder why you chose to come. You are older than I. I should have dug up The Warrior's honored hide from where you buried it and worn it as a cape, as did Two Nose, the Shawnee.

  "Now that would have indeed been powerful-and useful-medicine."

  "Two Nose died digesting one of my rifle balls, you will remember."

  Blue, triumphantly answered, "Yes, but then you had Flat to help you. I hope you can do as well alone, Quehana."

  +++

  Kurt Hornsock was weeding in his patch when the Indians appeared. An instant before, he had been alone hacking at spring-softened soil. When he looked up, there they were, only a rod away and closer to the cabin.

  The Indians were two, mature braves, without paint, simply surveying him closely. One was a physical giant armed with a good rifle and a long-handled tomahawk. The other appeared weaponless, except for a scabbarded hunting knife.

  Indians came occasionally. Hornsock's clearing had once been part of an Indian village called Shickellamy's Town. Some of his cabin logs had come from an abandoned Indian dwelling, and his best seed corn came from wild stalks survivors from Shickellamy' time.

  These red visitors might once have lived here. That often troubled Hornsock because a man liked to believe he was opening new land to settlement. Hornsock wished Indians would stay away. None had caused trouble, but they were savages, and you couldn't be sure about them.

  The smaller Indian raised a hand, palm out in the peace sign, and said, "Waugh." If they didn't speak English or French, Indians always began with "Waugh." Hornsock guessed that the word meant something like "Good Day." He found the greeting difficult to pronounce. It rolled around in his mouth and came out like a hog grunting.

  Kurt raised his own palm and made his sound. He propped his hoe and resigned himself to lost daylight swapping signs with the Indians.

  The smaller Indian did the talking. He carried a forked stick and flourished it about like royalty in the old country handled a scepter.

  Once the visit was shown to be peaceable, Hornsock's family joined the meeting. Occasionally, the big Indian gobbled in one of their languages, and the smaller cackled back. The Hornsocks stuck with their German and helped each other work out the Indian's hand signs.

  The braves had brought in most of a deer as a visiting gift and, unlike any before, refused his own offer of precious tobacco. That pleased Hornsock as he had little. Even when he offered salt, each Indian only tasted a pinch and politely returned the rest. Best Indians he had encountered, Hornsock decided.

  The settler's smallest girl baby clambered onto the big Indian's lap and snuggled contentedly within the immensely muscular arms. Before long, she was asleep with the innocent confidence of the very young.

  The boys kept circling around to
look at the pistol the big one carried at the small of his back. For a bit, Hornsock was nervous about it, but the Indian took their curiosity naturally, as though he were used to kleine kinder.

  The Indians, who identified themselves as Delaware by drawing a turtle in the dirt, accepted food and ate with their fingers. Each wiped extra grease on forearms and thighs. As good a place as any, Hornsock supposed.

  The big Indian's name had something to do with arrowheads. Quehana was easily remembered because it sounded like Susquehanna, the river that ran almost within rock throwing distance. The spokesman was called Blue Moccasin. He pronounced the words in English and had the inflection reasonably close.

  Kurt's English wasn't anything to brag about, and his French was only a few words. Hornsock wished that just once he would encounter an Indian who spoke German so that he could really understand what was being said. He believed he would like Indians better if he could talk with them.

  Blue Moccasin had blue eyes. That was unusual, but the French had traded along the frontiers for over a hundred years, and Frenchmen were notorious for carrying on with Indian women.

  The big one was all Indian, however, with eyes black as coals and skin as dark as oak bark. Both wore their hair in braids. Parted in the middle, the braids lay on their chests when sitting. The settler preferred braids to the standup roaches with plucked sides that had appeared a time or two. The roach kind of hair was menacing; braids appeared sort of peaceful.

  While they talked, both Indians kept their eyes moving. Where white men held their gaze pretty much on who was talking, the Delaware-as Hornsock thought believed the turtles to be-kept a watch on the forest, the cabin, and even the fields. Kurt did not know what they were looking for, but they would be hard to creep up on.