Arrowmaker (Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Rob’s fervent wave was returned by Girty’s upflung rifle. Although Rob doubted Girty would ever be more than an impoverished woods runner too often besotted in drink, Rob had never been more pleased to see a familiar face.

  “How, boy!” Rob’s out-thrust hand was gripped strongly in Girty’s meaty grasp. “Ya look a pile better’n when George last looked on ya.”

  Rob was thunderstruck. “Croghan was here?”

  “Surely, boy. Cain’t ya remember? Well, ‘at figures. George said ya’d lost ya senses an’ ‘peared mighty peaked.” His eyes scanned Rob from head to toe. “Cain’t say as how yore ezactly ready yet to rastle a bear. Boy, ya ain’t nothin’ but bones with a leetle hide hung on.”

  “I’m getting better fast now, Mister Girty. Thunder, but I am glad to see you! I haven’t been able to talk to anyone since I woke up. I don’t know why these people are taking such care of me; I’ve not been able to look for my horses; I don’t even know how long I laid sick; I darn sure didn’t know that Mister Croghan had been here; I’ve been looking for him every day.” The words poured from Rob as though long dammed and aching to be freed.

  Girty grinned and raised a placating hand. “Sit till I greet old E’shan. Then we’ll talk it out some.”

  Rob watched the blocky figure swing away, envying the smooth power of his movements and obvious confidence in what he was about.

  Girty squatted beside E’shan who was, as usual, chipping in the shadow of the oak. The men spoke amid dramatic arm gesturing customary among Indians and frontiersmen.

  Girty dug deeply into his hunting pouch and presented a packet to E’shan that set the Indian rocking to and fro while his toothless grin added creases to his wrinkled features.

  Their conversation finished, Girty returned to Rob. Dropping to the ground, he rested his back against the lodge, carefully propping his rifle beside him. He scrubbed his hands across the stubble of beard along his jaw, “Hot travelin’, boy. Raised a sweat comin’ off the Little Juniata.” He pointed toward the ridge south of the meadow as the way he had come.

  “Followed your track most o’the way from Sherman’s, boy. Don’t see how ya knew the route. ‘Ceptin’ fer a place or two, ya picked as true a course as I could’a. Ya were durn lucky over at Mahanoy. If ya’d missed the Little Juniata cut, ya’d had to go west a good piece fore there’s a way across.” He paused for a speculative glance at Rob. “That is a’course, if ya was headin’ for this here spot.”

  Rob’s smile was rueful. “Well, Mister Girty, if these are the Little Buffalo meadows, this is where I was heading. But, I surely didn’t get here on my own. Fact is, once I crossed Sherman’s Creek, I can’t remember much about the traveling.

  “But tell me about Mister Croghan. How soon did he come? Why hasn’t he been back? Did he take my horses with him?”

  Girty raised a restraining hand. “Whoa, let be, boy. I’ll tell ya all I can. Which a’course is mostly what George told to me.

  “Let’s see now. Seems as how George’d been down ta Lancaster speakin’ for some chief or other. He’s a Justice o’the Peace, ya know.

  “Well, anyhow, George he seen your wagon tracks up the mountain. ‘Lowed as how he couldn’t believe it. ‘Spected ta see the wagon layin’ in the hollow the whole way up. Found some kind o’message at his place tellin’ who it was takin’ a wagon over Kittatinny, and took out after ya. Reckon he caught up about the time ya’d keeled over in the meadow.

  “George, he hung around a couple o’days settin’ it up with E’shan to do what he could. Then, seein’ as how he couldn’t do no more nohow, he headed on out to tend to his own troubles.

  “Now George, he an’ E’shan bein’ friends an’ all, figured ya’d stay right here till ya was strong again, less’n ya died a’course. Then t’wouldn’t matter nohow.”

  Girty’s casual attitude sent chills along Rob’s spine. Life on the border could be cheap. Violence and death were facts to be dealt with, and hardship, with close to the bone existence, was shared by all. So, Rob understood both Croghan and Girty’s calm acceptance of his possible death from fever in the lodge of E’shan the arrowpoint maker.

  “A’course, George ‘spected ya’d git strong again.” Girty continued. “Them two squaws’re enough ta raise up any man, I figur’.” Girty’s rough laughter floated across the sun-dappled meadow.

  “So, George took some o’your knives and tomahawks along with him t’show the Iroquois Councils what all ya had to offer. Seems as how the Nations is sendin’ some people to a big meetin’ with John an’ Dick Penn, an’ George’ll be there actin’ as ‘terpreter. S’pose he’ll speak fer ya durin’ them goins-on.”

  “How soon will he be back, Mister Girty? Think he will know then whether I can stay here? Or, will the council take a long time deciding?”

  “Well, boy, no tellin’ how long Croghan will be. Meetin’ like that could run on many a day’s turning. Injuns they don’t settle on things real quick nohow. Takes a lot of sittin’, an’ smokin’, an’ speech makin’ fore they make up their minds to somethin’.

  “An’ that’s jest the reason ol’ George asked me to hike over this way after a bit. Figured ya’d be kinda wonderin’ what all was goin’ on.

  “George says for ya to stick here with E’shan. He says not to start doin’ any work less’n the Injuns git ter thinkin’ ya’r takin’ too much fer granted. Jest loaf aroun’ with Shikee; he’s E’shan’s gran’son. Hunt, look the country over, live as much like a Injun as ya can. It’ll ease their minds considerable about ya bein’ here an’ all.”

  Rob nodded mutely, waiting for Girty to continue.

  “Ol’ E’shan’s right well thought of ‘round the Nations. E’shan’s a Delaware, Turtle Clan, matter o’fact, an’ that’s high in Injun eyes. Most o’the tribes come by t’trade with E’shan. His arrowheads is figured to be the best by about all, ‘ceptin’ the Shawnee, a’course. They don’t mix much. Jest bein’ ‘sociated with E’shan’ll do ya good. A lot o’braves an’ some o’the sachems has already come through since yore wagon rolled in. So, the tribes purty well know ‘bout ya bein’ here.

  “Lemme see now.” Girty shifted to a more comfortable position. “Yore hosses’re safe at my place on Sherman’s. George brung ‘em over. Not enough grass at his cabin, an‘ he ain’t around t’keep a watch on ‘em, anyhow. Got my little sprout Simon lookin’ after ‘em. That youngon’s part Injun as t’is. Carin’ fer them hosses’ll keep him out’a the woods a mite—maybe.

  “Cain’t think a much else to tell ya. Yore goin’ ta owe Croghan a heap o’smokin’ tabacca fore too long. Ol’ E’shan’s a funny Injun. Ya might a noticed there ain’t no white man’s stuff ‘round this lodge. No iron, or tin, or even gingham. Ol’ E’shan, he ain’t got no use fer anything we got to offer. Howls as how we’re ruinin’ the Injun way o’livin’. So, George’s payin’ E’shan tabacca fer takin’ care o’ya.”

  Seeing Rob’s consternation, Girty offered his wide grin. “Oh, no cause t’let yer strings get loose. George used what bacca yore granpappy had, an’ he’ll trade fer the rest in good iron things if’n yore a’mind.

  “Mostly, tabacca gits traded the other way ‘round with us gettin’ ‘stead o’givin.” Girty summed it all up. “So, all ya’ gotta do, boy, is enjoy yerself fer a spell. After a bit George’ll come by an’ tell ya how it went. Then, ya can either roll back over the mountain or set up yer forge an’ git to hammerln’.”

  7

  1749 - Shikee

  The days following Girty’s visit began a new life for Rob Shatto. With Shikee as his tutor, he increased his efforts to learn the Delaware tongue, and as his strength returned, he undertook lengthier walks into the surrounding forest. Impatient with Rob’s initial weakness, Shikee seldom joined in the early travels, but as the white boy’s endurance grew, the Delaware youth spent more time in his new friend’s company. Within weeks, Rob had acquired a small knowledge of the soft, and to his ear, the especially melodic Delaware tongue.
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  Wearing only breechclout and moccasins exposed Rob’s skin to rapid tanning. Soon, he darkened to a golden hue that so closely matched Shikee that only removal of his loincloth revealed his Caucasian lineage.

  As their ability to speak together increased, the boys grew closer. While Shikee at first showed little interest in the white man’s world, he enjoyed introducing the white youth to his. Together, they stalked white tail deer, each seeking to creep closest before an incautious movement sent the alarmed animals bounding away. Shikee instructed Rob in the Indian method of building a stone dam across a small stream and beating the upstream water with sticks to drive fish to the dam where they enthusiastically smashed at the water attempting to stun the wildly darting fish.

  Rob’s flint and steel striker for starting fires did fascinate Shikee, and Rob learned the Indian way of carrying fire from place to place in the form of smouldering peat or bark in a small and sealed clay pot.

  When far from E’shan’s certain disapproval, Rob introduced his friend to the smashing power of his two-barreled pistol. The heavy shot blasting to bits a rotten stump sent Shikee into a howling, prancing dance of excitement. At Rob’s insistence, the Indian youth made his own attempt with the gun. Although the pistol shook like a leaf on an aspen, the shot was fair, and a huge mushroom blowing into dust sent both boys cavorting and yipping in an abandoned dance of youthful exuberance.

  Despite E’shan’s annoyance, Shikee donned an iron tomahawk and knife from Rob’s stock. They competed vigorously with hatchet and blade, throwing at any mark that struck their fancy. On their frequent sorties into the deeper woods, they took to wearing both hatchet and knife, but with no pockets, Rob was hard put to carry his pistol. From saddle leather, he worked out a scabbard to hold the gun on the back of his belt. The pistol slanted across the small of his back with the hooked grip to the right where a quick snatch and swipe of his left hand across the hammers could bring the gun to full cock and ready to fire.

  During his first few weeks of recovery, Rob tired easily and often rested, watching E’shan chip out arrowheads. E’shan’s points were shaped in a basic triangle as tradition demanded. Idling in the warm sunlight, Rob chose a tine from an antler and whittled a bone arrowhead of a design he thought practical and appealing. Because the bone was far lighter than flint stone, he made the point considerably longer, about five inches long, Rob estimated. After careful shaping and polishing, he handed it without comment to E’shan. The aged craftsman studied the point carefully, lips pursed in thought, hefting the point in his hand, comparing its weight to that of a stone point. His gnarled fingers caressed the smooth bone, and he held the point to the light, visualizing its action in flight.

  Satisfied with his appraisal he placed the point on the ground beside a small pile of arrowheads. He aimed a finger at the points. “As my white son used his knife of iron to make one point, my hands made this many. There would be empty bellies in the lodge of such a maker.”

  Rob counted eleven points in E’shan’s pile.

  The old Indian continued, “I have seen points of bone that hunters brought from a people who live where there is always winter. Those points too were of strange shape, and they were not good. Such a point can break on the living bones of an animal.”

  As if sensing Rob’s disappointment at such complete rejection, the arrowmaker continued. “It may be that such a point should fit a war arrow, for its flight would be true, and the bones of a man would not turn it.”

  E’shan paused in contemplation. “A point so large would demand a shaft that only the strongest bow could use. Perhaps you can make bone points for The Warrior, who carries the bow of Friend Seeker, or …” With a raised eyebrow he added, “Is my new son to be a killer of men?”

  Rob denied any such intent with his own grin and accepted return of his arrowhead. Who, he wondered was The Warrior, and who was Friend Seeker who had once owned a powerful bow? He would ask Shikee. Intrigued by the point he had made, Rob resolved to carve a number more as nearly alike as he could manage. As his own abilities with a bow were poor, he would have Shikee try them.

  Although he carved regularly on his arrowpoints, Rob’s interest in them lay far below that of exploring the land around him. Sometimes alone but often accompanied by Shikee, he followed streams to their junctions with the Juniata. He climbed timbered slopes to see what lay on the other side, and on one occasion he and Shikee waded the Juniata and clambered to the top of Buffalo Mountain to discover what they could see from such a lofty height.

  As his strength returned, Rob found himself able to maintain the Indian boy’s pace through the forest and discovered to his secret satisfaction that he was already far more powerful in his shoulders and arms than was Shikee.

  They found a secret place within a copse of hemlocks on Castle Knob where the meadows of the Little Buffalo lay beneath their view. Hidden within the spreading expanse of hemlock boughs, they planned vast explorations to the legendary Shining Mountains, said to rise many marches to the west. They thought to drift down the Juniata in a log canoe until it joined the broad Susquehanna and finally the salty ocean. They would carry belts of wampum and meet in friendship with strange tribes along the way. The imaginings required language beyond the common hand signs shared by all, and the continual practice blossomed Rob’s command of the melodic Delaware tongue.

  As they became confidants, Shikee came to enjoy hearing of Rob’s life before crossing the mountain, and Rob’s highly embellished descriptions of white ways never failed to astonish the Delaware youth.

  Shikee found the white man’s insistence on owning land incomprehensible. “The earth belongs to all of the people as does the sky or the water. Who can say that this piece of land is mine and no other may walk here? Why do whites not move as the Delaware do and follow the game and the weather? Why does he grub in the ground, destroy the forest, fence the meadows, and build lodges of trees when he could hunt and live free as does his uncle the bear or his cousin the deer?”

  “Well, Shikee, there are so many white men that they crowd against each other. So, I guess each one tries to find a place of his own where he won’t be bumped and elbowed. Then, having a place, he tries to fix it up the best that he can. An’ he stores things up, just like a squirrel does, so he won’t get hungry in the winter.”

  “If the whites are crowded, it is because they choose it so. There are hunting grounds beyond where our warriors have traveled. If the white man built his lodges as the Indian does and moved when the hunting was poor, the chiefs of the Iroquois would grant them special lands on which to hunt, as they did the Tuscarora many moons past. Instead, the whites live in one spot, root in the ground like their pigs, drive the deer away, and look with envy on the lands of the Indian.”

  “Shikee, the white man is as many as the trees of the forest. He is like the needles on the pine--though countless fall, there are always as many still on the tree.

  “Why they must change everything about them I do not know, but I, too, feel the wish to have a strong lodge and a place that is only mine where I can welcome friends and avoid my enemies.”

  They took their thoughts to E’shan, but for Rob at least, the old Delaware gave no satisfying answers. Drawing slowly on a long pipe, he sat cross-legged on the fur-covered floor of the lodge. The night was cool, and the leaping fire cast shadows across his wizened features.

  Rob and Shikee sprawled comfortably on thick furs and gazed half-mesmerized at the tongues of flame licking at the hard wood.

  “The Great Spirit first created the deer and the turkey and the land upon which they lived. But the does dropped many fawns, and the hens hatched broods of young, and they became too many and crowded the land. So, the Great Spirit made the fox to eat the turkey and the wolf to eat the deer, lest their numbers grow too large for the land.

  “In the same way the Great Spirit brought forth the bees to make honey and the bear to steal the honey. Finally, he made ‘The People,’ the Leni Lenape, called also the
Delaware, to enjoy all of the things he had made before. Lest The People grow too many, he brought forth their children, the many tribes of the land, to make war with one another and know the honor and courage of battle.

  “The People are the children of the Great Spirit, and the Susquehannoc, Huron, Onieda, and all of the others are the grandchildren of The People. The Leni Lenape have many relatives. The bear is our uncle, the moose-deer a nephew, even the panther is our cousin. All live on the lands of the Great Spirit, and there is room for all.

  “From across the great lake of salt come men with skins the color of fish bellies and eyes made from bits of the sky. They, too, are children of The People, although the Great Spirit has not yet told them. The white men push against and destroy all that they find. Soon, the Great Spirit will see that they, too, must be kept from becoming too many. Then, the Great Spirit will give to The People the strength to drive the white men into the sea and back to the lands the Great Spirit first gave them.”

  Lying in his robes waiting for sleep, Rob thought on E’shan’s words. The Delaware could not know of Europe, the bottomless reservoir that gushed its overflow of whites into this new land. Rob figured the white man was here to stay, and he planned to make his place along the Little Buffalo where he could have the best of it all.

  — — —

  Croghan came in May. The boys were peering into a shallow pool in the creek tying to locate the lair of a huge crayfish they had seen. The throaty snarl of a wolf almost between them sent Rob snatching for his pistol, and Shikee clawing for his knife.

  Croghan stood close behind them, chuckling at their alarm. His approach had been soundless, and Rob determined then and there that his own skills would someday equal those of the frontiersman trader.

  Croghan’s return held special interest for the lodge of E’shan. Despite the trader’s white skin, E’shan apparently considered Croghan an almost-Indian who had somehow strayed into the other camp. The Delaware tongue flowed from Croghan with practiced ease, and as he and E’shan shared a pipe of Croghan’s tobacco, the frontiersman sat and gestured in the Indian manner as though he had done so for a lifetime.