The Black Rifle (Perry County Frontier series) Page 7

  Both Elan and Shell worried aloud over Elan’s shooting. Jack Elan was not a good shot. A rifle was not a musket that was simply pointed and the best outcome hoped for. Using a rifle, a marksman could place his ball exactly where he wanted it. Jack Elan was not up to his gun, but acquiring shooting skill was also part of the plan.

  Bonds of friendship had developed between John Shell and Jack Elan. The gunsmith was drawn to the strangely dedicated younger man—dedicated to a probably impossible task.

  Elan, liked and respected the lanky gun maker and fought the pull of his family’s friendship. A man could do far worse than settle close by and allow himself to be drawn into the stability and caring of the Shell clan.

  Elan felt the pain of breaking ties when Shell decided that more than enough wood had been logged and handed back Rob Shatto’s seven dollars. There was even a moment when Elan wished the tiny drum in his head would grant him peace to turn away from Toquisson and the plan.

  Elan fought the desire because his task lay elsewhere. Later? Jack Elan dared not consider beyond killing the Heart-Eater.

  Elan marched away and soon caught the loom of distant Kittatinny Mountain. He felt the pulsing of his drum mount, and he broke into an easy trot toward the distant higher ground.

  There was a hint of spring in the air, his body was toughened, and his rifle was ready. Jack wondered how Blue Moccasin had fared. It could be that Blue had already passed again through Rob Shatto’s plantation on the Little Buffalo, and was heading west toward the Shawnee villages to deliver his messages.

  Elan hefted the weight of the black rifle swinging solid and natural in his hand and headed directly for Shatto’s. Now the real preparations to kill the Heart-Eater could begin.

  Chapter 10

  Blue

  Within months of his arrival in the Americas, Paul Cummens had married the Delaware squaw Oena. They named their son James, after English royalty but Oena, wife of Paul, made tiny blue moccasins for her son and called him that name.

  Despite his marriage to an Indian, Paul Cummens prospered. He traded with his wife’s people and became secure. A Philadelphia ship’s chandlery followed, and the Cummens household grew increasingly prominent and sound.

  Oena died in her son’s twelfth year, and after a suitable period, Paul remarried. This time to a jolly and buxom German girl who produced babies with astounding regularity. The Cummens home was a place of happiness. Children were constantly underfoot, and there was much shrieking and chasing.

  Oena’s son, James Cummens, found his new family good. Yet he spent increasing time with his uncles and friends of the Delaware. Upon release from his tutor, James took to the woods, and free days found him always with the Indians.

  In the beginning, Blue Moccasin’s merchant father had discouraged the youth’s forays among his mother’s people. A tolerant and understanding man, Cummens, in time, faced the inevitable and now experienced pride and gratification in his son’s unusual ways and often-profitable contacts.

  Still an Indian trader when profit appeared, Paul Cummens found that his son’s current knowledge and friendship with Delaware and Iroquois elders opened lodges and allowed business between himself and the tribes to prosper beyond other white competition.

  Life for a youth of mixed blood was rarely smooth, but Blue Moccasin’s azure eyes could spare him explanations as well as insults. Many took him to be of distant Latin parentage and accepted his bronze skin and jet-black hair.

  It was James Cummens’ practice of wearing blue moccasins and braided hair that brought forth the deeply ingrained white dislike for Indians. Frontiersmen, those who knew Indians, accepted him without question, but settlers new to the border were often uneasy in his company.

  It was also true that Philadelphian men of prominence sought his opinion and trusted his judgments of conditions beyond the settlements. The white community valued his ability to interpret accurately and often depended on his evaluations of tribal positions and beliefs. Although considered strange in his ways, James Cummens was socially acceptable, and he was welcome in finer homes of the great city.

  Despite the friendship of important citizens, Blue Moccasin found more contentment in the forests and among Indians. Far more acceptant of mixed blood, few of any tribe considered Blue other than a true red brother. Additionally, Blue Moccasin’s white education and his ability to speak for either side lent status to his already exalted position as an accomplished message bearer.

  Villagers willingly paid extra in wampum, white coins, or beaver pelts for Blue Moccasin to carry their messages. Blue Moccasin never neglected the minor details so dear to the Indian heart. His telling was unfailingly dramatic and so inspired that even the most common of messages, such as a birth announcement, seemed unusual or even momentous.

  The freedoms of communal tribal living appealed to Blue Moccasin. He enjoyed his prominence as messenger, and the loose camaraderie of lodge and longhouse drew him strongly.

  Blue had risen from obscurity by a Piscataway request that he carry warning to the Iroquois of a Cherokee encroachment across the Potomac River and north into the Endless Hills. The powerful Cherokee Nation could march through the lands of the weaker Piscatway without fear, but the smaller tribe resented the discourtesy and expected that the Iroquois would deal the invaders a harsh and deserved blow.

  Although barely a boy, Blue had carried the message north to the Seneca village of Shamokin, and a strong war party had moved south to punish the Cherokee invaders. Decimated by Iroquois might, the Cherokee had withdrawn.

  In that battle, a new Iroquois champion had first appeared. He was called Young Warrior, and his ferocity in battle was even then unmatched. In time, Young Warrior matured and was victor in battles beyond counting. Now called only The Warrior, feared by many of his own people, dedicated to honor for his tribe and himself, dangerous to any who stood against him, The Warrior allowed only one inside his wall of self-imposed reserve.

  Blue Moccasin could make The Warrior smile—a feat almost beyond belief until actually seen. Blue might throw an arm about the killer’s massive shoulder or ruffle the stiffened scalp lock that crowned the shaven and painted head. Blue Moccasin had accompanied The Warrior on a winter’s march into Huron country far to the north where almost magical feats had occurred.

  How it could be so, or why it would be so was mystery, but if The Warrior had a friend, a companion, a true brother it was Blue Moccasin. Blue Moccasin, who could imitate anyone and did whether the recipient approved or not, Blue, who dared to thump the most dangerous warrior known in his muscle-ridged belly, and would not be smashed into the earth.

  Blue’s spirit rose to the challenges of bravery and honor. The Warrior lived for those attributes, and to Blue Moccasin, calling the most ferocious fighter ever known his friend was itself an honor beyond anything civilization might offer.

  Jack Elan had come unexpectedly into the life of Blue Moccasin. As James Cummens, Blue could weep for the fate of the white captive, and as Blue Moccasin, he could sorrow for his people’s primitive cruelties. As a message bearer, he could offer no help nor interfere in village matters.

  The plight of the white prisoner had immediately concerned him, and the condition of the prisoner had appalled him. The man appeared little more than a sack of bones matted with filth and topped by a mass of encrusted hair.

  Blue sat for some time with the captive observing his vacuous expression and animal-like behavior. Only on a whim had he spoken English to the prisoner, and the white’s dawning comprehension surprised him. Blue thought it like watching a man waken from a sleep near to death, and it was long before the captive’s eyes remained focused and awareness glowed from within.

  Blue was not certain that he had done well by the captive, whose sufferings at the hands of the Eater might have been lessened by madness.

  As bonds of understanding grew to a budding friendship, Blue Moccasin scoured his mind for a way to aid Jack Elan. He found nothing. His position and his honor
precluded interference. After long consideration, Blue found his only hope was to attempt to buy Elan’s freedom from Toquisson, the Heart-Eater.

  The captive’s defiance and bravely spoken disdain in the face of Toquisson’s threats stirred Blue’s admiration, but dramatically decreased his chances of saving Elan’s life. The probability of making the purchase was so small that Blue dared not mention his plan to Elan.

  Seeking a way to pierce Toquisson’s vengeful hatred, Blue Moccasin sat with the Eater and the young warrior. Talk had barely begun when Elan’s escape had shattered their counseling and sent the still crippled Heart-Eater to groaning aloud and pounding the earth with his canes.

  A warrior had been dispatched along each riverbank but they did not search far, and as night fell no trace of the captive had been found. The hunters quickly returned to the warmth of their lodges, and by morning all had concluded that the white had drowned in the icy river.

  The Heart-Eater had fumed and brooded. None dared approach him as madness fairly leaped from his eyes, and no one cared to catch the evilness of his spirit.

  Blue Moccasin sought The Warrior who, it was said, could have easily stopped the escape, but the fighter was gone from the village. Aware of The Warrior’s respect for courage, a vagrant thought touched the corners of Blue Moccasin’s mind, but he failed to heed it. He, too, believed that Jack Elan had drowned, and Blue was glad for the captive’s easier death.

  That Jack Elan had survived the savage winter wilderness astounded Blue Moccasin. Elan’s description of The Warrior’s assistance had thrilled and amazed the message carrier. Had the great killer been traveling east and chosen to enjoy or reward the escaping captive’s improbable effort? Or might The Warrior have been exalted by the white’s unwavering determination to escape—to live—and followed and aided him to the edge of Iroquois lands? When they met, Blue Moccasin would ask his friend, and The Warrior’s answer, Blue was sure, would confound those who did not understand their defender’s search for and devotion to honor and courage.

  Now, Blue carried messages from his friend Elan to the Heart-Eater. Their delivery would be both exciting and demanding. They might be dangerous. The thoughts pleased the message bearer.

  Blue leaned comfortably against the bole of an ancient oak and let his fire rise to warm him. The night was still, and the bowl of stars hung close above. He drew a strip of venison on a stick from the fire’s edge and tested it for crispness. He savored the rich meat and listened to wolves calling in the distance. He felt the night close in around him and relished its comfort.

  The decorated forked stick of a message carrier stuck from the ground near his fire, affording him safety, and he felt contentment rush wave-like through him.

  Jack Elan again crossed the mind of Blue Moccasin, disturbing his sense of well being. Elan’s quest was dangerous and improbable. If they battled, Heart-Eater would surely out-fight and destroy Elan.

  For Elan, vengeance was more important than all other things in life. He hungered for the battle. Rob Shatto would teach Jack many things, but Toquisson was a Shawnee warrior seasoned in war, and he fed a hatred at least equal to Elan’s.

  There could be no peace in the thoughts, and the message bearer put them aside.

  Sleep weighted the mind of Blue Moccasin, and despite his fears for his friend, Blue drifted into sleep.

  Chapter 11

  The Message

  A mile from Heart-Eater’s village, Blue Moccasin reached a small run and paused to prepare his entrance.

  As a bearer of news, it was important that he look his best. Sweat streaked with travel stained garments might imply great hurry, but for most occasions such an appearance lacked the dignity commensurate with a messenger’s importance.

  Winter was failing, and freezing was past. Soon, the earth mother would gain strength, and warmth would return to all things. Blue stripped and splashed himself clean in the rivulet. Using only his hands, he whipped his body dry and donned finely decorated shirt and leggings. After slipping into a pair of brightly blued moccasins, he carefully applied a ring of vermilion paint around his face, retied his long braids, and was ready.

  He hung his traveling pack beyond the first lodge for later recovery and entered the village walking proudly, holding his forked stick aloft, tapping a small finger drum for attention with his free hand and, as one concerned with high matters, looking neither right nor left. Blue Moccasin, bearer of important messages, had arrived.

  Blue felt an unusual impatience as leaders and advisors pondered his reports of official happenings. His interest lay in delivering Jack Elan’s message to Heart-Eater.

  He found it notable that Toquisson was not included in the village counseling, and he supposed that these elders recognized the Eater’s madness and distrusted it.

  Eventually, the council dissolved its meeting and followed the messenger to the speaking mound to hear the gossip from other villages and the public messages to local villagers. As usual, Blue Moccasin would deliver private messages to individuals after exclaiming those meant for all to hear.

  Blue strode to the speaking mound and faced the assembling village. With the branches of a giant tree reaching out above him and his freshened paint, the youthful carrier was not unaware of his striking appearance. Among a people without writing, the spoken word bore special importance. Because they were the tribes’ only means of planned communication, message bearers were granted safe passage even between warring nations. No position rivaled message bearing in importance or was granted similar respects. Among the most skilled of carriers, the words of Blue Moccasin were valued and appreciated. All wished to hear.

  Blue Moccasin stood silently, allowing the gathering to settle and turn their attention to him. He began with casual or amusing messages, allowing his smile or gesture to indicate their seriousness. At times, the village laughed aloud or discussion arose over a message of special interest.

  Heart-Eater had not joined the crowd, and Blue Moccasin feared he might be gone from the village. Blue had wished to hurl Elan’s challenge into the face of the Eater, to make his mortification before the village complete. Then, as he neared the end of the message list, the Eater stepped into view and moved toward the assembly.

  Blue Moccasin’s heart leaped then quailed as he studied the Eater. Outwardly, Toquisson appeared completely recovered from Elan’s terrible blow. His body swelled with heavy muscle, and he loomed above a young warrior trailing him. The moons of winter had returned strength to the Heart-Eater.

  Yet it was the Eater’s face that coursed chills along Blue Moccasin’s spine, for behind graven pain lines and beetled brows burned the signs of madness. Heart-Eater’s eyes glittered with a ferocious hatred of all that he saw, and his lips appeared drawn in a permanent snarl. There was raging intensity about the warrior that froze the soul, and if the plan succeeded, Blue Moccasin feared mightily for the life of Jack Elan.

  When the Eater stood in brooding silence at the rear of the crowd, Blue Moccasin paused. With utmost solemnity he drew dignity about and stood stiffly erect, adding the weight of his presence to his message. Anticipating a message of moment, the gathering silenced.

  With unexpected violence, Blue Moccasin thrust a pointing arm at the Eater and fixed him with his eyes. His voice was strong so that all would hear, and the power of his words stirred the listeners.

  “To the Shawnee, Heart-Eater, known now as Birdsong, the white warrior, Deathgiver, sends these words.” Excited and astonished muttering rushed through the crowd, and the Eater’s body grew taut as a bowstring. Blue waited out the people’s excitement.

  “I, the Deathgiver, who with a single blow destroyed the manhood of the Shawnee, Birdsong, send both words and gifts to the one whose life and scalp I will soon take.”

  Somehow, the words of the Deathgiver hissed serpent-like from the mouth of Blue Moccasin and raised hackles of dread and drifted tendrils of fear among the listeners.

  “Throughout the Iroquois nations, through the
Huron, the distant Lacota, beyond the Cherokee and the Creeks to tribes whose names are not yet known, the challenge of Deathgiver shall be spoken until even the dogs wait to see if the Shawnee, Birdsong, dares face the wrath and fury of the Deathgiver.”

  Blue Moccasin allowed no replies or time for mutterings. “During the moon of the corn picking, the Deathgiver will wait below the mountain Concocheague. He will wait alone where the child-killer, Birdsong, struck his coward’s blow and forever lost his manhood.

  “At the clearing where the woman-killer, Birdsong, played the woods rat, the Deathgiver will wait. When the Shawnee, Birdsong, appears, the Deathgiver will slay him. He will take the Shawnee scalp and feed it to camp dogs.”

  The crowd stood in stunned silence as Blue Moccasin paused to draw items from his pouch. A few hunters turned toward the Eater who stood as though carved from stone. Only the mad glitter of his eyes and a slight trembling of tense and straining muscle betrayed the raging hatred and stunned humiliation all knew must be roaring within him.

  Blue Moccasin held aloft the polished skull of a woods rat.

  “Because the Deathgiver knows the heart of the Shawnee, Birdsong, the Deathgiver returns to Birdsong the skull of his brother.”

  Sucked in breaths told the impact of the terrible insult, but the Eater appeared unmoved. Blue Moccasin hung the skull from a convenient twig and continued.

  “And finally, to replace that which he took from Birdsong, the Deathgiver gives these presents.”

  Blue Moccasin raised a dried moose scrotum and saw the eyes of the Eater glaze as if in death. Amid the shocked stillness, the Eater rocked on his toes, and for an instant, Blue Moccasin believed he might attempt the unforgivable and attack a messenger.

  The young warrior tugging at the Eater’s arm reached through the Shawnee’s rage, and a touch of reason returned to the killer’s contorted features. Without warning, Heart-Eater spun from the crowd and disappeared among the lodges.