The Black Rifle (Perry County Frontier series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  A curious jay landed on a nearby limb, and his mate joined him. They examined Elan’s unmoving figure, cocking their heads in wary interest. Then, for no apparent reason, they flew madly upward, squacking sudden and indignant alarm. Elan cursed the birds, but remained immobile as the jays moved quickly away.

  Without warning, a screeching cry from the far ridge shattered the morning calm. The scream rose in volume to a mad shriek of raging challenge and ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

  The Heart-Eater had come!

  Hackles and goose bumps rose on Jack Elan. His breathing became short in a suddenly constricted chest. The drum thundered wildly, and his answering scream of too long held hatred burst involuntarily from his throat.

  Shocked by the escape of passion surging inside him, Elan battled for control, and he could feel sweat dank on his palms as he fought to clear his mind.

  The jays had given away Elan’s position. His enemy had seen and had hurled his mad challenge, and he had heard Elan’s acceptance.

  Heart-Eater had come, and he had opened the combat. Now, the Shawnee killer must be maneuvered as Elan had long planned.

  A doubt flitted across Jack Elan’s mind. Could Rob Shatto or perhaps Blue Moccasin have screamed the challenge as ghastly humor? No, it could not be. Both had agreed to stay far from Elan’s chosen ground. He must not doubt. The Heart-Eater was there, and it was time to kill.

  Despite the Eater’s maniacal challenge, Elan saw no movement on the far slope, but Jack doubted the Shawnee would passively wait for his enemy’s approach. Yet, the Eater might not expect the Deathgiver’s own swift attack, and he could be caught unprepared.

  Heart-Eater would not chance crossing the exposed open ground between them, nor was he likely to struggle across the steepness of the mountain to the west. Elan expected the Shawnee to hunt him through the eastern woods that tied the ridges together.

  The quicker he got to the Eater on the north ridge, the brighter his chance of surprising the Shawnee would be. Jack checked the priming for both barrels of his rifle and moved swiftly east along his ridge.

  Elan moved rapidly in a stalker’s balanced crouch, his rifle in both hands forward of his right hip and pointing always ahead. His eyes raked the forest, sweeping the woods while, of their own volition, his moccasined feet found the best ground.

  In a hundred practices he had coursed along the ridge searching for the first glimpse of movement. He had studied every laurel thicket and knew each roll of earth and swell of tree bole. In countless imaginings he had sprinted along the ridge and burst upon the astonished Shawnee. This time it was real, and Elan forced his mind ahead, anticipating what lay before him.

  The planning and practicing served him well. Staying deep within forest cover, he sped along the south ridge, vaulted the rivulet, and turned west along the Eater’s north ridge.

  Slowing his pace, Elan watched the forest to catch the first movement of the Eater’s approach. A twinge of something neglected or forgotten plucked a fringe of his mind and demanded attention, but his enemy’s closeness sent his heart thudding and a matching drumming within his head drove the warning aside.

  Something moved ahead, and he froze in the shelter of a tall pine. Half-blinded by surging emotion, Elan saw the Eater appear among the trees, moving with a powerful stride that brought his slab-muscled body into menacing animation.

  The Eater had daubed vermillion below each eye and had painted a series of black chevrons across his broad chest. In each hand, the Eater grasped a long-handled tomahawk. Toquisson was surprisingly close, and clad only in a loincloth and moccasins, the eater of hearts loomed overpoweringly deadly.

  Despite the choking thunder of straining hatred, Elan recognized the Eater’s full recovery and knew that hand-to-hand, he would have no chance against the Shawnee’s overwhelming ferocity, size, and experience.

  Except for Elan’s black rifle, the Eater would have little need for help in overcoming . . . !

  Elan’s blood turned to ice. Panic exploded in his mind, and his mouth flooded with sour bile. In his hatred he had forgotten Blue’s repeated warning, “Heart-Eater will not come alone.” Elan knew, as surely as he had ever known anything, that at this instant an Indian warrior was leveling a deathblow at his undefended back.

  With shocked awareness, Elan felt his tense and crouching body twist in seeming slow motion. An involuntary scream of fear-filled anguish burst from his straining throat, and his rifle swung to level on the figure rising behind him.

  The young warrior had followed Heart-Eater’s directions and paralleled his companion’s course, staying a little ahead of and higher on the slope than the Eater.

  The young warrior heard the white man’s rapid approach an instant before he broke into view, and he dropped into concealment behind a moss-covered stump. He studied the Deathgiver with interest, marveling that the white, with his clumsy way, dared again challenge the wrath and cunning of the Great Toquisson.

  When the Deathgiver slipped into the protection of a tree and was intensely studying Toquisson’s approach, the young warrior rose as silent as a morning dew and moved within easy throwing distance. Confidently, he drew back his heavy, stone war club to send it hurtling into the base of the Deathgiver’s skull.

  The white’s sudden, screaming whirl caught him there, too soon to release the club, too off balance to dive into cover. He saw the black rifle muzzles come into line. He wondered what had warned the Deathgiver in time and wished he had a moment to speak to the Great Spirit.

  Fire leaped toward him, and a sledging blow struck into his chest. He could feel no pain, yet he knew that he had fallen to the earth. He clutched the damp humus, and feeling its earthy goodness, his final thought believed that he might live after all.

  Elan saw the heavy rifle ball strike the Indian, and the warrior folded in the loose-limbed collapse of imminent death, his terrible club falling away and his hands clawing at the earth.

  Elan stood gasping. The closeness of it shuddered through him, and the sudden strength of fear fled leaving him weak and drained. An instant later and the heavy club would have crushed his skull and the Heart-Eater . . .

  Again, the terror of great error enveloped Jack Elan. Desperately, he raised his rifle and hurled his body aside.

  This time, he was too late. Heart-Eater’s maniacal screech tore his hearing, and the Shawnee’s hurled tomahawk struck the maple stock of the rifle tearing it from his grasp. The iron bladed hatchet glanced away, slashing along Elan’s ribs in passing. The earth slipped beneath him, and Elan lost his footing. Half sitting, he saw the Eater plunging ahead, now silent and almost upon him.

  Frantically, Elan scrabbled away seeking to put trees between the Eater and himself. Expecting the smash of the Shawnee’s second tomahawk, Jack recovered his footing and fled wildly through the forest.

  After a moment’s blind sprinting, Elan risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the Eater lunging after him. Perhaps thirty yards separated them, and Elan surmised his dodging among the trees had delayed the Shawnee. Now, however, the Heart-Eater was in steady pursuit. A second look behind showed the Eater, if not gaining, at least holding his own.

  Running hard in the choppy stride he had so long practiced, Jack Elan had little time to ponder the circumstances that had so tattered his great plan. Instead of standing exultantly over his foe, he ran for his life with the hated enemy in close pursuit.

  Elan could feel the fire of a deep cut at his belt line, but he felt no weakness from the wound. Heavy bleeding could drain away his strength, but he had no time to check the seriousness of the tomahawk slash.

  Elan believed he could eventually outrun the heavily muscled Heart-Eater, but a misstep, a delay of any kind, would bring the Eater leaping upon him. The knife swinging at Elan’s waist brought no solace. He could not meet Heart-Eater blade to blade. He longed for the comforting weight of the rifle lying so far out of reach behind him.

  Thought of the rifle with a barrel still charged s
tarted a new hope churning through Elan’s mind. The rifle could be damaged or unfirable with the priming spilled from the pan. A clubbed rifle would be no defense against Toquisson’s tomahawk, but if the rifle would shoot, and if he could somehow get to it . . .?

  Jack risked a longer look behind and found their positions unchanged. The Heart-Eater appeared confident of his ability to run down his quarry. He no longer strained to close the gap but had settled into a steady run that looked strong and smooth.

  Behind them, further out of reach with every stride lay the rifle, and with it Elan’s only hope of victory. Jack visualized the slope along which he ran and the hills around him. To reach the black rifle, he must circle the ridge to his left. Heart-Eater could close the distance between them by cutting the corner of each turn. Elan wondered if the Shawnee would immediately suspect his goal of regaining the rifle? Jack doubted it. The Eater could not know of the two barrels. In his eyes, the rifle would be only an unwieldy club.

  Ahead, the undergrowth thickened, and as he reached the almost impenetrable growth, Elan raised his pace for a few yards before turning sharply to the left.

  Again he twisted to judge the Eater’s reaction. Momentarily, the Shawnee hesitated, seemingly surprised by the white man’s folly in making an abrupt turn. Then, as Elan expected, the Eater changed course, cutting the corner, and gaining on his fleeing quarry.

  Letting his legs settle into the familiar pounding run, Elan examined his condition. There was pain along his ribs, and the bloodstain at his waist grew larger. Yet, his lungs drew strong with normal sweat starting beneath his hunting shirt. He shrugged free of his hunting bag and powder horns and felt new freedom without their bulk slapping his side.

  At Elan’s second turn, the Shawnee again gained a little, but Elan was able to increase his pace and regain a margin of safety between them. They surged through the timber, sometimes slipping and sliding on steeper slopes but maintaining a relentlessly tiring pace.

  Heading west, Jack drew air deep into his lungs and felt power and speed still strong in his driving legs. The Eater pounded steadily behind him, but Elan decided that if he wished, he could run away from the heavily muscled Shawnee.

  Yet, he could not! He had to maintain Heart-Eater’s confidence and certainty of victory. If the Eater turned away in disgust, their paths might never cross again.

  Reluctantly, Elan shortened his stride and upon occasion appeared to flounder as though tiring. The Eater drew closer, and Jack kept him there. They rounded the western nose of the ridge and began to close their circle with Heart-Eater in close pursuit.

  As though tied together, they had circled the ridge, and as he increased his pace to stay ahead of the Eater’s short cut on the final turn, Elan felt the strain of his wound and the injury begin to take hold. He forgot any danger of the Eater dropping out and concentrated on making suddenly wearying legs reach ahead for sure footing.

  With unexpected rapidity, Elan’s strength began draining away. It took increasing effort to hold his pace, and his lungs began to pump in shorter, harsher breathing. His wounded side was thoroughly blood soaked, and although the injury gave only a sharp throbbing pain, Jack supposed the steady blood loss was taking its toll. The rifle lay far ahead.

  Strain came to his lungs, and harsh breathing quickly became ragged. Elan’s mouth seemed filled with cotton, and his legs burned as though on fire. He sought help from the drumbeat, but he could not match it to his laboring stride. Occasionally, Elan staggered as his feet became clumsy, and he dared not risk a look behind lest he fall.

  He had to concentrate on direction. If he missed the rifle he was done in. Elan doubted any ability to dodge back to it. His months of living on the land became especially valuable. Knowing every stone and bush, he could choose the easiest path exactly to where the black rifle lay.

  In his failing strength other worries surfaced to tortured Elan. He had seen none, but Heart-Eater could still have companions. The possibility of another warrior picking up the rifle and trotting far back along their trail chewed at Elan’s soul.

  Then, almost surprising him, the fallen warrior and the rifle lay only one hundred yards ahead. Now was Elan’s moment. Summoning all that he had left, Jack poured his strength and will into a final desperate spurt to gain enough lead to reach his rifle before Heart-Eater reached him.

  He saw the fallen warrior with only peripheral interest as his eyes searched frantically for the rifle. Its black length lay where it had fallen, and Elan forced his beaten legs into a last gasp effort to gain another yard. He dove for the rifle, landing hard, sliding and rolling, but his fingers closed around the stock with the frantic grip of a drowning man.

  His breath sawing, and his eyes nearly blinded with sweat and tension, Elan forced his trembling hands to swivel the barrels so that the loaded barrel lay under the hammer.

  His dimmed vision saw the Heart-Eater looming almost above him. His thumb rammed the hammer to full cock, and he lurched his body aside to give the muzzles room to register on Heart-Eater’s lunging body.

  Through scalding sweat and gut-churning weakness, Elan saw the raised tomahawk and the Eater’s sweat-streaked body only dimly. He felt his rifle barrels coming into line with a ponderous deliberation that seemed interminable.

  His finger snatched at the trigger, and Elan felt the hammer fall. Fire flashed in the pan, and after an endless and frozen moment, the shock of recoil jerked his arms, the explosion thundered in his ears, and powder smoke obscured his target.

  Elan attempted to roll aside, to dodge the Eater’s descending hatchet, but utterly spent, his body barely moved, and he sagged to the ground without strength to do more. The empty barrels of the black rifle lay useless among the leaves and twigs, and Elan knew that if his shot had not gone home, his life would continue for only a few heartbeats.

  Without hope for its use, Elan fumbled at his knife scabbard and managed to free the long and razored hunting blade.

  The smoke thinned and drifted, and Elan and the Eater sat facing each other a bare length apart. The closeness of his enemy forced Elan into motion, and a palsied hand raised his knife and waited for the Eater’s attack.

  The Eater sat unmoving. His tomahawk, secured to his wrist by a leather thong, lay beside his hand. Unlike Elan, whose chest pumped heavily sucking air into exhausted lungs, the Heart-Eater seemed strangely still with only his eyes alive and hating.

  Elan saw the hole in the Eater’s chest. It looked small and puckered, and of little importance to that massive form—but it lay centered just below Toquisson’s breastbone, and Elan knew what destruction lay within. The heavy ball had struck squarely, expanding and distorting as it entered, destroying huge blood vessels and probably part of the Eater’s heart before exiting through a gaping crater, and perhaps taking with it a section of the Shawnee’s backbone. Elan knew with exhausted certainty that the black rifle had done its work.

  Still, the Eater lived. His eyes glittered agate-hard, and his paint-streaked features showed no softening or surrender.

  Elan watched almost mesmerized as the Eater’s hand crept to his tomahawk handle. Muscle rippled as he fought to raise it, and through his pain and exhaustion, Elan could sense the Shawnee’s final straining effort.

  The tomahawk rose, but as a candle is doused, the light of life fled from the Eater’s eyes. His lids drooped, the tomahawk again fell, and Heart-Eater’s great body sagged backward and sprawled limply on the sloping earth.

  Elan watched the slack features with little feeling. Too hurt and exhausted for exhilaration, Jack experienced only relief that it was over. He marveled that the Eater’s hand still gripped the grounded tomahawk, but there was no question that the Shawnee was dead. Like any animal, his lifeless eyes were dulling with the glaze of death.

  Elan waited, slumped and worn, letting his lungs suck precious air and gradually approach normal. If there were other hostiles about, they also would have to wait.

  Strength returned slowly, but when he coul
d, Elan rose on quivery legs, and using the rifle as a cane, he stood close to the Eater’s body.

  In death, Toquisson, the Heart-Eater, appeared strangely shrunken. It crossed Elan’s mind that all things looked less once the spark of life went from them. He supposed it was due to everything relaxing, and all of the air going out. It could be that a man looked smaller because his soul had gone.

  Elan took another look at the Eater, just making sure that he was all the way dead, with no mistake about it. Jack considered sticking his knife into the Shawnee, just to make certain, but there was no need.

  Elan was sick with exhaustion. He thirsted beyond belief but took time to make sure of the other Shawnee. He saw that the first warrior was little more than a boy, and he remembered seeing him at the distant village—perhaps he had seen him on his maddened march from his cabin those many months ago, but he could not be sure.

  Though young in years, the stone-headed club the youth had wielded was man-sized and deadly. Elan’s hurried shot had caught the Indian plumb-square in the breast. Jack believed he should be pleased with his shooting, but he was too worn to feel much of anything.

  He limped to the run on shaking legs and sucked down enough water to founder a horse. He got his shirt off and saw that the Eater’s tomahawk had cut a long, deep slash between his lowest ribs. Now that he had quit running and straining, the bleeding had already stopped.

  Jack swished water over his head, keeping it from reaching the wound lest it wash away the clot and restart the bleeding.

  He felt a need to get his rifle reloaded, but his hunting bag lay hundreds of yards away in the forest. He stayed at the rivulet, dangling his hands in the water and feeling a huge lethargy creeping over him.

  Finally, Elan roused and made his way to the shelter of an ancient hemlock. As he had on his long run from the Ohio country, he crept far beneath the drooping branches and wished he had the vigor to reach his blanket cached too far away.