The Warrior (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Read online

  Friend Seeker passed beyond pleasure and approached amazement. When his student competed, his performance was awesome. One by one the stories came to him and the encampment hummed with the excitement of it.

  Gently, Friend Seeker told the favored Young Warrior stories, planting anew the possibility of The Great Spirit's love for the Seneca mother. (Only a rumor he had heard.) He told of the three names and of Young Warrior's few years. If there were doubters, none raised their voices; how could one argue against a youth who ran faster and threw further than all others.

  Young Warrior could not win the arrow shooting. The best was a thin youth who drew a bow so weak that the arrows barely hung in the target, but he never faltered. Arrows occasionally touched each other and none flew wide.

  The favorite contest was to launch five arrows as quickly as the opponent and to place them in a tighter grouping. Measurement was made by looping a thong around the arrow shafts with the shorter cord winning. Young Warrior was as quick, which most found remarkable with a war bow, but his cord was always longer. His arrows whirred in their flight and some passed completely through the hide and straw targets, but they did not group as closely.

  Disgusted, Young Warrior left, only to return to challenge again. With discouraging regularity he continued to lose.

  If Young Warrior was pleased by his resounding victories, it did not show. He joined Friend Seeker's fire circle with no more than polite greeting and returned bow and quiver to his teacher.

  Friend Seeker examined the two remaining arrows and the fistful of points and broken shafts before gazing over Young Warrior's shoulder in expectation.

  "Do a village of squaws approach bearing the herd of buffalo or the tribe of defeated enemies taken by these many arrows, my nephew?"

  Young Warrior's mouth barely quirked but he spoke clearly. "There is a shooter of arrows against whom I contested many times. His aim was always better. Between contests I practiced, but I did not win and my arrows became too few."

  Around the fire there was headshaking and more than a few chuckles before the Seeker spoke for them all.

  "You have met Walking Crane of the Oneida, my student. No one defeats Walking Crane at targets, for that is what he does. As most hunt and a few fight enemies, Walking Crane shoots arrows. He is to be found at every camping and his people say that all of his time is spent in practice.

  "Did you not consider his delicate bow and arrows with points too small for other use? To defeat The Crane, you too would need special weapons."

  A late arrival broke in, "Do not be too sure, Friend Seeker. Many of your student's measuring cords approached Walking Crane's. The Oneida's victories were not easy. There was sweat on his palms and tension at his mouth." The speaker considered a little, "Each time Young Warrior returned, Walking Crane was less pleased."

  "It would be good to see The Crane beaten. His puny bow twists the meaning of our contests." The speaker was a seasoned old hunter and his words drew approval.

  Friend Seeker closed the subject. "There will be other years." Young Warrior's thoughts echoed the sentiment.

  ++++

  Again, Late Star believed it was too soon.

  "Young Warrior has not seen enough seasons to take a war trail."

  "At the Marks, he was like an eagle among pigeons, Late Star."

  "That is not war, Friend Seeker. Would you have him buried because you could not wait?"

  Annoyed, The Seeker responded, "You would have him gray headed, Late Star. To wait longer would weaken his interest and his skills will stale. Young Warrior has learned his strengths and they are more than I expected. He knows that he is ready and he hungers to earn feathers and serve his people.

  "It is time. I will choose the trails and control his part." He turned sarcastic, "Did you suppose that I would simply point him at an enemy and say, 'Attack them!"'

  "Such thoughtlessness is not beyond you, Seeker. Probably my warnings will dissuade you from rash acts, but it would still be better to wait another year."

  "In another year we may both be dead, Late Star. You from moldering like an old mushroom and I while accomplishing some courageous act."

  "I will live to squat above your resting place, oh Seeker."

  Friend Seeker laughed, "Do so with care, oh Star, for Young Warrior will be there to rattle you like the dried up cornstalk you resemble."

  ++++

  Chapter 9: Age 18

  Within the southern mountains, the mighty Cherokee Nation rumbled and surged about. New chiefs sought power and proved their strength by seizing land which they sacked or chose to fill with their own villages of crop growers. To their east, the Creek tribes fought strongly and were supported by whites swarming close to the sea, but to the north lay the empty lands claimed by the Iroquois who lived even further along the mountain chain.

  Could not the Cherokee move strongly through the Iroquois southern gates and take the game rich valleys for their own? Many thought they could, and a war party powerful with seasoned fighters formed and trotted north to test the will of the distant Iroquois.

  Word of the intrusion came with the appearance of a youth of half-blood. Called Blue Moccasin, the boy was of the Delaware Turtle clan, which had long accepted protection behind the Iroquois shield.

  Half white, Blue Moccasin roamed freely between the pale eyes and the people of his mother. For the carrying of this message he had been chosen by leaders of the Pistecataway, whose holdings along the Chesapeake and Potomac were also threatened by their neighbor's aggression.

  North the youth raced. At each meeting he told his story. Listeners spread the warning and prepared to resist or flee as their strength allowed.

  From Shamokin, Turned Ankle, a son of Oak Neck, led the Iroquois answer to the Cherokee challenge. Hands of warriors drew together and trotted south to turn back the invaders. Other fighters appeared and, by arrival at the Juniata, the war party numbered more than fifty.

  Although it was an Iroquois battle, Turned Ankle particularly welcomed the joining of Friend Seeker the Delaware. Long had the Seeker stood at the southern gate defending his people against stings by marauding bands. A fighter equal to any, the Seeker added stature to the party; that he brought his student was also bright. Although untested in battle, Young Warrior was recognized as possessing skills beyond the abilities of those he had contested.

  The meeting at the Juniata added only two fighters, but in his measuring, Turned Ankle judged the power of his force increased by a hand.

  There had been time to prepare, and Late Star had overseen the war painting with demands that kept the maidens rushing. The girl called Pond Lily had been about lately, and with Star's direction she had carefully cut away Young Warrior's hair until only a roach remained along his head's center line. That hair was stiffened with pitch until it stood upright, a bold challenge to the enemy. The shaving of his scalp on either side took time, but Young Warrior found the girl's ministrations specially pleasing and endured silently as befitted one approaching fierce battle.

  The Seeker painted only a black stripe from forehead to nose tip but it gave his features a sinister cast.

  For Young Warrior, Late Star chose to circle one eye with white and the other with crow-wing black. The effect was powerful and even Star's eyes widened. Friend Seeker grunted approval and waved away the paint pots.

  "We know that warriors are not frightened by fierce paintings, nephew." Late Star spoke as the final packing of pouches was completed. "But neither should an enemy gain confidence by seeing only the faces of peace.

  "Some warriors choose new decoration at each battle, but many of the most brave paint always the same so that enemies will recognize them and seek them out.

  "For this time, two rings will serve you well. Later you may discover something better. By then you will be known and your enemies will tremble as they recognize you."

  The Iroquois loped south with scouts ranging far ahead, but even within the column, Turned Ankle did not lead. Wisely, he
placed himself near the middle of his men where he could direct their actions and avoid becoming trapped if the column head found fighting. The Iroquois had learned many hard lessons in their wars with the Delaware, Susquehannocks, Shawnee, and Chippewa, and Oak Neck had passed that knowledge to his sons.

  As one of many, Friend Seeker found opportunities to point out important things to Young Warrior. Except for the men scouting, bows were carried unstrung, for surprise would be answered by hatchets or clubs, and if stressed for long periods, bows could weaken or strings might fail.

  Scouts ranged in pairs so one could rest while the other led and to insure that one could break away to notify Turned Ankle without abandoning the scouting.

  It was exciting and different to Young Warrior. He studied the weapons others had chosen and marveled at the diversity of their war painting.

  Before the day grew old, he learned that his endurance was better than most as some soon sweated and tired while he barely felt the pace. He could see that he was stronger, for most in the party were smaller with bodies far less developed. His confidence grew with the realization that he could stand tall even among warriors of the mighty Iroquois and he hoped the Cherokee would soon appear.

  Their camps were simple; a few small fires over which men took turns cooking small bits of meat to supplement corn and pemmican from their pouches. Though weary, there was visiting by friends of other marches and a great deal of soft laughter. Young Warrior sensed the joking to be a way of easing tensions and worries about the approaching fighting.

  Although the men had left behind women and lodges of lusty children, there was no mention of them. This was a time of war and other distractions were deeply buried.

  Although members of the war party, both he and his teacher were not at the heart of it. Friend Seeker was a Delaware. Although respected and a friend to many, the bonds of nation and tribe held him away. And he? Young Warrior knew himself as untried and a stranger to most. Even so, a feeling lurked that he would always stand outside the familiar camaraderie. He was said to be Iroquois and he felt as one with that people, but. . . he could not explain, even to himself.

  The scouts found the Cherokee's trail and turned north on it. Men remarked that it would be a strange battle with the Iroquois fighting toward their homeland and the enemy pointing south from where they had come. Friend Seeker mentioned only that it was good, for it meant that the Cherokee were trapped. Young Warrior felt the strength of the reasoning. Where others might have believed their own band cut off, the Seeker saw advantage.

  Opposing scouts met and passed words from leaders. The enemy drew closer, and the battle began to take form. The Cherokee had come to fight, to test themselves and the hearts of the Iroquois. The warriors of Turned Ankle came to turn back or destroy the intruders.

  While the leaders spoke, war paint was renewed and weapons seen to. It was decided that the war parties would meet in a broad meadow and that bows were to be left behind. It was to be a battle for honor and mastery, not one of cunning and stealth.

  In the past, such fighting had been common and old men remembered, but the times of conquests had passed and few had fought in lines. There was honor in the agreement and both sides straightened with the pride of it.

  Young Warrior carried tomahawk and spear but Friend Seeker chose his arm-long war club that he could wield with speed and crushing power. They saw to each other and stood ready.

  As silently as deer, the lines appeared from opposite sides of the clearing before beginning their ritual chanting and challenges.

  The hands of Young Warrior broke with sweat, and he felt it trickle beneath his arms. He sensed no fear, but seemed somehow dislocated as though he watched from a distance. Friend Seeker had warned of the dangers of observing instead of concentrating. One could drift dreamlike into battle or study his own actions instead of killing his enemy. Now Young Warrior experienced the condition and fought against it.

  The Cherokee seemed as many as they, and Young Warrior saw no youths among them. Their paint was bright and they began a deep voiced chant accompanied by rhythmical weapon clashing that showed them an experienced and organized band.

  The Iroquois warriors answered with less coordinated bellows of challenge and Young Warrior was surprised to hear his own voice hurling bold words across the meadow.

  Without command the lines surged forward. The Cherokee moved as one almost shoulder to shoulder, and before his mind shut away such thoughts Young Warrior wondered how they would find room to use their weapons.

  The lines broke into eager trot and became less straight. The Iroquois leaped the tiny run and with shrieks and roars rushed the Cherokee wall.

  Young Warrior leaped with the others. Before him a sweating figure lunged, eyes staring and lance thrusting. As if in practice, Young Warrior slapped the shaft aside with his own and drove his body's weight behind his spear. With little resistance his point disappeared into the breast of the Cherokee, and the man fell away the spear caught within him.

  Instinctively, Young Warrior snatched his tomahawk and spun to protect himself. His charge had carried him through the line and for an instant he saw Cherokee backs straining against fiercely distorted Iroquois faces. Then the lines dissolved and the fighting became dozens of twisting combats.

  Hearing had somehow gone but it returned as suddenly with a rush that charged the air with shrieks and yells. He hacked a leg from beneath a struggling enemy and leaped to attack another. Something clubbed him low in the back and he whirled again to cut down the one who had struck him. The blow had taken his wind and it was a struggle to move on. He registered a glimpse of Friend Seeker locked with a red painted warrior as he drove himself at Cherokees overwhelming a companion. His hatchet gained a life of its own, and he darted among the enemy. Its bite shocked often within his arm and he found himself rushing from fight to fight in search of others to battle. Once he stepped across the body of the red painted Cherokee but he did not see Friend Seeker and he lost thought as new opponents appeared.

  The fighting ended as quickly as it had begun. Suddenly there was no one to strike. The eyes of Young Warrior swept the meadow, momentarily shocked by the carnage. Warriors lay strewn in disorder, some upon others, a few moving, as though to prove they still lived.

  There was deathly silence. No cries of defeat or screams of victory marred the stillness. Young Warrior heard his own breath sawing hard in his chest and found himself easing an iron-hard grip on his blood-drenched tomahawk. Sudden fatigue flooded his body, and a bone deep exhaustion welled, nearly staggering him.

  A small group of Cherokee had retreated to the meadow edge where they crowded like deer threatened by wolves. The Iroquois were scattered by the fighting, but they were still many and Young Warrior's anxious gaze found Friend Seeker among them raising his hand solemnly toward his student as though he too had been looking.

  He became conscious of pain. There was dull and heavy throbbing where clubs had struck and he was surprised by the number of fire-like streaks that wept blood from blade slices. In the heat of fighting, he had been unaware of enemy's blows, and he quickly examined himself to determine that none were severe.

  A Cherokee leader was stepping forward, hands at his sides with palms forward to show them empty. Turned Ankle, now truly limping, strode to meet him—his own heavy club still in hand.

  The Iroquois assembled, and prepared to resume the battle. A few labored over bleeding, but the rest stood ready, counting their numbers against the few surviving Cherokee, knowing the day was theirs.

  The leaders' talk was short. When it was finished, the Cherokee returned to his men and Turned Ankle came to his ready fighters.

  "It is done. The Cherokee will turn south. They vow to carry the message of this battle to their chiefs. Their leader has said he will fight no more.

  "When we have removed our brothers, they will attend to theirs.

  "What is here is ours, but the Cherokee living will not be harmed.

  "To t
his I have agreed."

  They gathered the dead and assisted the few wounded. From the Cherokee they took weapons and trophies, but the honor of the great fighting still glowed and they removed no scalps or fingers.

  For himself, Young Warrior chose two iron tomahawks. Still hung from their owner's wrists, they were heavier weapons, keen as the finest knives. After his spear had stuck solidly in the Cherokee's body, he had fought with one empty hand. The lesson was learned; Young Warrior would now carry two tomahawks. He saw them with handles of unusual length; they would improve his reach and his powerful wrists could control them.

  The Iroquois withdrew to another valley where the dead were given to The Great Spirit and wounds were treated for the return march.

  Scouts watched the Cherokee recover their dead and straggle slowly southward. Then the scouts followed, as they would for two suns.

  Even in victory, Turned Ankle insisted on vigilance. Guards roamed the forest around their reorganizing place and no dancing or idle boasting was tolerated. The iron of Oak Neck showed in his son, and though some complained, most were pleased by it.

  Friend Seeker had only a single small cut where some weapon had touched him. He helped Young Warrior with the wounds he could not easily reach, and with few words other than a simple commendation for fighting well, he hurried away to speak with Turned Ankle.

  The Iroquois leader sat at the stream's edge soaking an injured foot in the water.

  "The Cherokee was already killed but his club did not know it. He struck my foot squarely." Turned Ankle lifted the swollen appendage and studied it ruefully.

  "It is only The Great Spirit's will that it is not crushed flat," he grimaced, "but it throbs like a drum."

  Friend Seeker squatted, saying nothing, waiting for Turned Ankle's words.

  "You saw your student in battle?"

  The Seeker nodded.

  "He was like a wolf!" Turned Ankle lifted his chin toward the distant battleground. "How many of those did he strike? My eyes doubted what I saw. He treated the Cherokee as children, Friend Seeker, and they were fighters of many coups and feathers. While we struggled warrior to warrior, he wove among them like an angered snake, His hatchet bit deep and often, and if he missed a stroke, I did not see it."