The Black Rifle (Perry County Frontier series)
Page 14
Elan hungered only to sleep, and the fall chill barely touched his toughened body, but a sense of something missing plagued him. He had made so many miscalculations during the fight that he forced himself to determine what tugged at the corners of his mind.
For a while Jack thought it was the unloaded rifle lying close beside him. Then, he realized the special silence.
For the first time since before he had driven his heavy shoe into the Heart-Eater, the tapping drum was gone from his head. Elan searched his mind to see if it was just put away deeper than usual, but the drumming was gone, leaving only the memory of how it had been.
Elan marveled for a moment or two, enjoying a sense of peace and well being spreading through him. Then, the need for sleep became too strong, and he let its dark comfort slip in and claim him.
Chapter 22
Epilogue
From where he had paused along Mahanoy ridge, Elan could look down onto the clearing and see the cabin he had so carefully put together.
Martha grubbed vigorously in the garden patch, and with a breeze rising, he could hear their cow lowing in the fenced place along Little Juniata Creek.
Bulging with boned venison, his pack hung heavy on his shoulders, and he eased it against a tree trunk while he enjoyed a look around.
Just across Limestone Ridge to the north, Rob Shatto’s people would be readying their fields for planting, and looking west up Sherman’s Valley, he could see smoke rising from a new clearing. Having neighbors was comforting, and Martha enjoyed visiting back and forth.
A small run trickled from the notch where the trail crossed to Rob’s place. Elan’s eye caught movement along a far slope, and it took a moment of close watching to determine that it was only a raccoon working around a dead tree stump.
It bothered Jack Elan more than a little that they still had Indian worries, and it would be a few more seasons before enough settlers moved past Tuscarora Mountain and provided Sherman’s Valley protection against war parties. Indian thoughts tightened Jack’s grip on the black rifle, and he unconsciously fingered the scars left on the stock by Toquisson’s tomahawk.
Well, the Heart-Eater’s bones were moldering over near the old clearing, and if anyone mourned either the Eater or the young Shawnee, Blue Moccasin had been unable to detect it.
Still, it was welcome to see how near to hand Martha kept her musket. Martha loaded with two buckshot on top of a solid ball, and out to about fifty yards she hit where she aimed. John Shell’s daughter had been shooting longer than her husband, and Elan figured that any prowling savage would be dropped in his tracks either before or right after Martha slammed and barred their cabin door.
Jack straightened under his pack and moved along the ridge. His moccasins made little sound. He was aware of the sureness of his movements, and contentment caught deep within him. He had a strong and loving wife and a stout cabin. The frontier had tempered and trained him. Survival hardships had honed his skills, and he recognized his ability to live beyond civilization’s protections.
Impressions of the valleys and ridges lying between Kittatinny and Tuscarora Mountains spread through his mind. Elan knew the rise of mountains, the sweep of wooded ridges, and the fall of the many creeks. This land was good, and he was at home in it.
Jack hallooed the house and saw that Martha was already at the door, a hand raised in welcome, the other gripping her musket.
He thought, Jack Elan, you are an unusually fortunate man!
In answer to her wave, he raised the black rifle overhead.
The End
About Roy Chandler
Rocky Chandler is now 86 years of age. He remains active and still rides his Harley-Davidson across the continental United States.
The author divides his time among Nokomis, FL, St Mary’s City, MD, and Perry County, PA,
Author of more than sixty published books Chandler is writing a final novel titled Blackwater Jack.
Yep, that Blackwater. The new tale is a zinger.
Rocky Chandler: Author, Educator, Soldier, Patriot