The Black Rifle (Perry County Frontier series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  In the privacy of his lodge, Elan strengthened his body by tensioning and straining his limbs until they quivered. He ate all that was offered and persuaded Blued Moccasin to bring additional morsels from other lodges. Hope of escape fanned Elan’s courage, and there was new strength in his stride as he twice daily visited the cliff edge.

  Elan chose dusk as his time of escape. In the dark of night he could gain valuable distance. When to make his try was a more difficult matter. Each day brought closer the bitter cold of winter and lessened his chances of surviving if he escaped his immediate pursuers. Yet, each day increased his knowledge of the vast lands lying between Pthuthoi village and the white settlements.

  Of equal weight was the consideration that Heart-Eater could succumb to his grievous injuries or the dangers of the trail. In which case, Blue Moccasin informed Elan, his release might be arranged.

  Heart-Eater’s arrival would be Elan’s signal. Elan watched the weather, and he waited, improving his plan and gathering both strength and courage.

  Chapter 4

  The Warrior

  Blue Moccasin sat facing the lodge entrance observing village activities and commenting on the qualities of various maidens within their vision. Elan’s view of the village was more restricted, and Blue’s “Waugh!” of pleased surprise forced the captive to lean awkwardly forward. For an instant, Elan’s heart quaked and his courage flew like a storm borne leaf.

  A warrior had entered the village. For a blood curdling moment, Elan feared that his memory had failed him and the awesome figure was that of the Heart-Eater.

  Immediately, he realized this could not be. No wounded and sullen woman-killer lurched here. This warrior gliding across the open moved with pantherish grace. His size was Herculean, with toned and layered muscle beneath a bronzed skin scarred by a thousand combats.

  Even at a distance, the warrior’s glance raked the village, and as it passed across him, the fierce power of his gaze touched Elan’s soul.

  Blue Moccasin bounded to his feet and left the lodge. He greeted the warrior with affection and a respect so unlike his usual proud manner that Jack Elan could not doubt the stranger’s importance.

  As Blue Moccasin spoke and the warrior answered shortly, if at all, Jack Elan studied the mighty figure with an amazement that grew rapidly into awed admiration.

  From roached hair to worn footgear, the warrior’s ferocity fairly took Elan’s breath away. Even the awesome physical presence of the Indian was exceeded by an almost visible aura of menace that sparked from all-seeing eyes and was magnified by savagely painted features.

  The warrior’s scalp was shaved into the single-crest scalp lock favored by those following the warrior path, and his entire head was painted contrasting colors. Finely divided at his nose line, one side of the warrior’s head was painted white, the other a dead black.

  The warrior wore no other adornment. His breechclout was held by a belt supporting a knife and two iron tomahawks. His moccasins of the Delaware pattern similar to Blue’s footwear were fastened by bindings at his ankles and were worn and travel stained. Even in the chill of early winter, he wore no upper garments. He carried no pack or pouch, but a heavy bow and a cluster of arrows in an unadorned quiver slanted across the muscular width of his shoulders.

  Blue Moccasin’s gestures swung toward the prisoner, and the impact of the warrior’s gaze was a physical blow. Elan braced to meet the warrior’s eyes and hold them. Shaken, he watched Blue Moccasin stride away beside the savage figure, appearing almost child-like, as though a boy walked proudly near an honored elder.

  For Elan, even escape plans stood aside before the majestic power of the Indian he had seen, and time passed slowly waiting for Blue Moccasin’s next visit.

  Preparing, as if to speak a tale of great portent, Blue Moccasin knelt, his body erect and his arms free to gesture. Jack Elan felt anticipation tingle along his spine and closed his mind to all except the words of Blue Moccasin.

  The voice of Blue Moccasin soared and filled the lodge with its music. He told of a warrior of such prowess that all in the Six Nations of the Iroquois named him The Warrior. He spoke of The Warrior who was honored above all others, not only by the Iroquois, but by all tribes whose names were known.

  It was The Warrior who wielded the deadliest tomahawk, who ran beside the deer, and who leapt the widest streams.

  Who but The Warrior could spring among his enemies accepting their arrows and clubs to count coup by touching each with his hand before leaving them unmarked but defeated in spirit?

  Who but The Warrior lived only for honor and the honor of his people? It was The Warrior who traveled alone among enemy villages. It was he who rescued captives beyond numbering, and it was he whose very name sent war parties scuttling in terror to the safety of their lodges. Victor of countless combats, The Warrior stood tallest among warriors.

  Blue Moccasin sang on, and Jack Elan listened, captivated by the strength and beauty of the youth’s voice and the majesty of his story.

  None knew whence The Warrior had come. He had grown among the Delaware people, but to most, he simply was. The Warrior spoke rarely and acknowledged few. His words were mostly Delaware, but on occasion he spoke in Onondaga or Seneca, the more important of the Iroquois tongues. Equally often, his words were strange and from languages that Blue believed only The Warrior recognized

  The Warrior searched constantly for great challenges to strengthen and sharpen a spirit and body already razor-honed. The Warrior fasted, The Warrior fought, and the Warrior ran impossible distances. The Warrior was believed to face winter without robes; he treated wounds with salt or fire, and none could hope to leap, throw, or strike in competition with The Warrior.

  Blue Moccasin said, “The Warrior strode among the Huron, an enemy of the time. Behind a mask of friendship, a coward attacked The Warrior with his tomahawk. The blow struck full into the chest of The Warrior, and the blow was heard by many. Yet, The Warrior gripped the fist of the enemy who had struck him and held his enemy powerless while he snatched a glowing brand from their fire of peace. He held the brand to the bleeding wound in his chest until blood ceased its flow. Then, he crushed the hand of the coward within his own and threw the enemy from him. The Huron saw and honored the courage and heart of The Warrior. Their coward was beaten from their presence, and peace was marked for many moons between the Iroquois and the Huron.”

  Blue Moccasin paused, and Elan saw immeasurable respect in the youth’s blue eyes. Elan knew they mirrored his own awe of the savage tale.

  When he was alone, Elan thought of The Warrior. If The Warrior could live in winter without robes, might he not do the same? He now lived naked, without fire, protected only by an empty lodge.

  Comparing himself to the mighty fighter was arrogant, but if he could escape, he too might fight off winter cold and make his way across the mountains to Sherman’s Valley and safety.

  Chapter 5

  Return of the Heart-Eater

  Toquisson, the Heart-Eater, moved as though his years numbered a hundred. His still muscular body bowed curiously forward, and his step was small and cautious to the edge of delicacy. He leaned heavily on two walking sticks, and deeply graven pain lines aged his sunken features.

  Hatred-reddened eyes dominated the Eater’s haggard features. Their bitter malevolence struck warning cords in the breast of Jack Elan. For the first time in many days, the drumbeat swelled in the captive’s mind and forced through his carefully prepared defenses.

  Quelling his own burning hatred, Elan held himself erect as Blue Moccasin had recommended, glaring scornfully back at his deadly enemy.

  The Eater spoke, the biting intensity of his shrill voice silencing the chatter of the many onlookers.

  Elan feared his bound hands hampered his attempted dignity, but he allowed a slight smile to touch his lips and turned his eyes haughtily to receive Blue Moccasin’s translation of the Heart-Eater’s words.

  “The warrior, Toquisson, the Heart-Eater,
is pleased to see that the white eye still lives, for his long journey through the mountains allowed the Eater time to plan carefully the white’s way of death.

  “The white eye can be sure his screams will startle ravens in distant valleys, and he will see suns pass before the Eater devours his still beating heart.”

  For a long moment, Elan fought the pounding of the drum and forced his mind to calmness. Awareness of the hushed villagers gathered to see the meeting gave him courage to hold his head high and allow no trace of his inner quailing to show.

  He nodded understanding to Blue Moccasin and thought he saw encouragement in the eyes of the interpreter’s impassive features. Elan turned to the Eater, looking down his nose and forcing disdain to mix with the hatred in his voice.

  “I see no Heart-Eater.” He paused to allow Blue Moccasin to translate.

  “I see only Birdsong, a killer of women and children, who speaks a warrior’s words with a maiden’s voice.” Sucked-in breathing encouraged him further.

  “Does Birdsong not know to whom he speaks? I am Deathgiver! Already I have taken from Birdsong all of the children he might have had and their children and their children’s children.”

  Allowing his eyes to range across the gathering, Elan paused to observe the effect of his words. He saw squaws cover their mouths, and he watched admiration leap into men’s eyes as his words were translated.

  Before the stunned Heart-Eater could respond, Elan quickly added. “Birdsong should look to his weapons, for when he is ready, Deathgiver will seize the one with the squaw’s voice and destroy him.”

  Without waiting for Blue Moccasin’s translation, Elan turned, and with as much dignity as his bonds allowed, reentered his shelter. The Heart-Eater’s maddened shrieking rose behind him as Elan slumped weak-kneed with pounding heart onto the familiar dirt floor.

  Standing separated from the villagers, the mighty Warrior had listened to the brave words rolling from the lips of Blue Moccasin. His eyes settled on Elan, and as the captive had turned away, he had felt again the impact of The Warrior’s dominating presence.

  Did a smile tug at a corner of that fiercely painted visage? For an instant, Elan thought it was so.

  Chapter 6

  Escape

  Elan dug the flint shard from its hiding place and forced it solidly into the cracked lodge pole. With firm pressure, he began laboriously sawing his elbow bindings across the sharp-edged flint.

  Occasionally, he flexed his elbows, testing for give in the rawhide thong. Finding none, he resumed the steady scraping, allowing the flint to wear away the tough leather.

  The cord parted with a sharp snap, and Elan instinctively froze immobile, fearful that the sound might be detected. His lone guard leaned indolently on his spear, gazing across the village, and Elan quickly worked his tied hands beneath his boney rump and slid them free in front of his body.

  The rest took little time. His teeth unknotted the oiled eel skin tied about his thumbs and wrists, and fingers clumsy from disuse released the hobbles from his ankles.

  Standing deep within the shadowed lodge he bent and flexed, loosening his body and feeling tension mount as his time grew close. Elan licked suddenly dry lips and again reviewed the steps he had planned for his escape.

  The winter sun already hung low. At any time the old squaw he had targeted might remove her clothing from the airing poles. The guard remained entranced by the village happenings, and the captive knew his chances would never be better.

  Elan sucked in a breath, gathered muscle and nerve, and lunged from the lodge entrance with all of the speed and power his emaciated body could muster.

  Caught unaware, the warrior guard turned too slowly, and Elan’s charge struck him solidly in the back, driving the air from his lungs and launching him in a gyrating fall down the slope and out of Elan’s view.

  Without pause, Elan dove for the clothing spread to air and snatched the garments he had previously selected. Already, warning whoops were rising behind him, and Elan drove himself savagely toward the bluff overlooking the ice-filled river.

  Struggling to wrap the stolen garments into a manageable bundle, Elan saw too late a single figure step into view directly on his path to the bluff. With despair, he recognized the fearfully painted visage and awesomely muscled form of The Warrior, and his eyes caught the glitter of iron tomahawks at The Warrior’s waist.

  With no way to turn, and aware that at the hands of the mighty fighter he had no chance, Elan could only plunge desperately ahead.

  Still, The Warrior paused, unmoving, watching with apparent interest the captive’s desperate rush for freedom. No mighty hand touched a sharpened blade or raised to halt the straining runner.

  Hope flared in Elan’s mind, and he ploughed onward almost brushing The Warrior as he lumbered past. For a long moment the skin of his back crawled anticipating the deadly strike of a thrown tomahawk, but the blow did not come, and the bluff with its straight drop to the icy river spread before him. Shouts and calls rose from behind, and without hesitation, Elan clutched his bundle to his naked chest and leaped wildly into space.

  Ice-laden current rose to meet his fall, and he struck hard, the impact and terrible cold driving breath from his lungs.

  Vise-like, Elan’s spindly arms clung to his meager bundle as the current took him under, and an ice flow scraped painfully along his thigh.

  The buoyancy of the leather bundle brought him quickly to the surface, and in the swift current Elan found himself already leaving the village behind.

  He fought his way through the ice flows, pointing toward the far side of the river, but the fierce cold numbed his body and forced him to drift, struggling to keep afloat, and to keep from losing his all-important bundle.

  His plan to cross the river and to escape into the forest was too difficult, but the near river edge was thick with brush, and with night approaching, he might still avoid recapture. Elan thrashed his legs pushing himself toward the closer shore. The skin clothing rapidly lost buoyancy as it absorbed water, and he knew he must quickly reach shallow water.

  Relentlessly, the current swept him onward. The soggy leather began dragging at arms too chilled to feel, and the bitter cold brought lethargy that weakened his will and made even surviving of small importance.

  Icy stone scraping against him jerked Elan’s mind awake, and he found himself washed into a shallow eddy.

  He struggled erect on numbed feet and staggered and crawled to the low riverbank and the dry land beyond. He was sure he had drifted far, and with dusk already dimming the woods he might still break free.

  Elan trod on the leather clothing, squishing water away with his benumbed feet. A flash of white caught the corner of his eye, and startled, his head swung toward the movement. Seated on a fallen timber, as though he had waited long, sat the mighty Warrior.

  Even at rest, The Warror appeared ferociously dominant. No sweat from running lay on The Warrior’s skin, nor did his chest heave from furious pursuit. He was simply—there. It was as if he had known exactly where the escaping captive would wash ashore.

  Dismayed and fearful, Elan struggled into soggy leggings and shirt, but the first clothing to cover him in many weeks gave no solace, and that the moccasins fit well seemed now of no importance. Still, The Warrior merely observed his activities, much as a traveler might watch a chipmunk or a strange bird.

  With surging hope, Elan considered that the great killer might only be interested in the adventure of his escape. Perhaps he had no desire to return him to his captors. Blue Moccasin had told tales of The Warrior’s respect for courage and daring actions against great odds.

  It could also be true that the famed killer of enemies played with him as a lynx might a crippled rabbit. Elan considered again taking to the river, but the cold was too great, and his clothing would immediately sink. If he reentered the water, he would surely be pulled under.

  With hammering heart, Elan raised a hand to The Warrior, grunted his best “Waugh,” and st
rode past the seated fighter.

  Immediately, Elan risked a backward glance. The riverbank lay empty. The Warrior was gone.

  Gone to ambush him further along? Elan doubted it. The Warrior had ignored two opportunities to stop his escape. Why would the killer seek a third? But Elan would take no chances. He turned aside and began to run.

  The night closed quickly forcing him into a walk, but he kept moving, wearing away the hours, pausing only to drink at small rivulets and ignoring a hunger that already gnawed at his middle. At times, the drumbeat pounded in his head and, as he had before, he used its rhythm to force his weary body onward.

  With the first hints of morning light, Elan crept deep into a laurel thicket where an intruder would rattle dry branches. He covered himself with leaves for warmth and concealment and fell into a sleep of pure exhaustion.

  Elan slept hard, dreamless and unmoving. In the earliest dawn he woke chilled by creeping cold and the hunger in his belly. He lay working stiffness from his joints and listening for sounds foreign to a new morning.

  Something drifted across his senses. It was not right, and his mind came awake. Elan sniffed. It was the odor of cooking, the scent of cooked meat.

  Heart pounding, Elan peered through the thick brush. Nothing stirred. No voices broke the forest silence. His eyes focused closer and fell on an object impaled on a twig well within the thicket.

  Astounded, he lay motionless examining the cleaned and cooked gray squirrel. Elan could not doubt who had hung the food almost within his reach. That the mighty Warrior had tracked him through the dark of night, killed and cooked a squirrel, and finally soundlessly entered and departed the brittle-twigged copse challenged his reason. He plucked the squirrel from its twig and with watering mouth sniffed the browned meat. With a mental shrug of acceptance, Elan pushed aside scraggly ends of his untrimmed mustache and began to eat.