Arrowmaker (Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Sounding more sure than he felt, Rob wished his Delaware was better and laid his plans before his patient. “My brother Shikee will bear mighty scars to paint vermilion when he tells of killing the great panther.” He hoped the brave words would give the boy heart for what was to come.

  “All of the wounds except two have already closed.” Rob pointed to deep gashes seeping blood. “These two must be closed, or they will drain away my brother’s strength. I will sew the edges with a skill so great that Flat and Fat will be jealous of my work.

  “First, oh killer of panthers, you must eat and gain strength for the time ahead. I have taken the heart of the great cat to give your body and spirit his strength and courage. Then, you may tell around the fires how Shikee ate the heart of his enemy.”

  Rob saw no value in telling Shikee that his pistol had taken the panther. Shikee needed all the courage he could get and dwelling on the tales he could relate for the rest of his days might grant strength and lessen the suffering ahead.

  Rob cooked the panther’s heart in small strips on a green twig. Adding a touch of salt, he fed the sizzling meat to Shikee who forced it down without enjoyment.

  Shikee’s bow string was made of plaited gut greased and softened until pliable. Rob separated the string into smaller strands and threaded the thinnest on one of his iron needles. Without preliminaries, he thrust the needle through a ragged edge of skin on the worst wound. Shikee’s breath hissed through clenched teeth, but he uttered no further sounds. Lips drawn tightly together, his eyes squeezed shut, he submitted to Rob’s less than delicate artistry with only a steady drip of perspiration from his features hinting at the fires the needle shot through him.

  As swiftly as possible, Rob sewed the lips of the wound closed. He rested a moment to wash Shikee’s face with cold water. Then, threading a new strand of gut, he tightly stitched the second wound.

  The sewing finished, Rob insisted that his patient drink long from the bark cup before attempting sleep. The stiffened hide was already showing the effects of warm sun on dead flesh, but it was the only covering available, and Rob again placed it over his friend’s body.

  Fever rose and fell in Shikee as the boy’s rugged constitution fought the poisons of the cat’s claws. Periodically, Rob forced Shikee to drink and regularly cooled his sometimes flushed features with water from a small spring.

  Rob’s own wound healed swiftly. On the second day he examined his forehead in the reflection of a small pool. He could not recall the great cat striking him as it had swept past, but the slanting gouge across his forehead was proof that it had. He tenderly washed the clotted wound and decided it could do without stitches, although the scar might be with him forever.

  Shikee’s suffering was steady and trying but began to abate on the third day following the panther attack. The less serious gashes were red and angry, but the edges had closed, and healing had begun. The deeper wounds were another matter. The slashes suppurated around the stitching, and proud flesh appeared in many places. The skin surrounding the long gashes was swollen and pulsed with heat. The wounds looked unhealthy and dangerous.

  The healing warmth of the hot springs was but a mile distant, and Rob determined to move Shikee there. But for the wounds in his thighs, Shikee might have walked the distance, but bending his legs would have ripped loose the delicate healing his body had already accomplished.

  Rob cut a pair of saplings, and using the strong smelling panther skin as support, improvised a crude travois. As carefully as he could, he transferred Shikee to it, and grasping the poles, he leaned into the load. Bouncing gently midway down the springy device, Shikee attempted rough humor urging his ox onward.

  Taking his time and resting often, Rob found the pull practical. The springs lay on the north side of the creek where the ground sloped into a rolling hill. A meadow dotted with large trees lay between Sherman’s Creek and the springs. Visitors usually camped in the meadow where access to both stream and the healing waters was convenient. Rob chose to make his camp on higher ground as close to the springs as possible.

  Generations of users had scraped shallow pools below the strongest spring. The water smelled strongly of sulfur, and the flow from the spring was strong enough to keep the water from cooling. The upper pool was deeper and hotter than the lower.

  Rob eased Shikee into the steaming warmth of the lower pool, and as the Indian youth sighed in contentment, Rob slipped in beside him, letting the warm mineral water lave his body and soothe his soul.

  Lying on their backs, the youths submerged themselves completely, blowing bubbles through their noses and allowing the heat to penetrate deep into their tissues.

  The weather remained good, the days hot and the nights warm without wind. In case of rain, Rob threw up a small bark lean-to, A single fire at the shelter’s open side reflected heat within, and both boys were able to sleep despite their lack of blankets or robes.

  Repeated baths in the warm mineral water produced immediate effect on Shikee’s wounds. Fever left the gashes, and the flesh began to mend. After two days, Rob removed the stitches amid Shikee’s yowls of anguish and threats of terrible retribution. Small pains could be complained over, and Shikee made up for his jaw-clenched silence when his agony had been intense.

  For another week they lingered at the springs. Rob dramatically thinned the frog population along the creek and speared fish until they tired of them. A few eels and a pair of rabbits brought down by Rob’s pistol fed them adequately during the patient’s convalescence.

  Deciding that Shikee’s legs were well enough to travel and that the healing waters had done their work on all of the wounds, the travelers headed across the ridges toward E’shan’s lodge. They walked easily, sparing Shikee’s strength, taking no risks, and planning a grand entrance.

  Within the woods bordering E’shan’s meadow, Shikee demanded a halt while he decorated his wounds with berry juice and draped the partly cured panther skin about his shoulders. Rob had scraped the panther hide and soaked it thoroughly in the spring water. He had pegged it to dry in the open meadow, and in the evening firelight he had worked it soft and pliable with his hands and a wooden billet.

  Their return created pandemonium. Even E’shan was agog at Shikee’s scarred body. To Rob’s silent amusement, Shikee at first stalked about making little of the incident but inwardly glowing in his new found importance. Then for nights thereafter, the youth told and retold the adventure as Fat and Flat worked the panther hide into the softest of cloaks for the hero to wear proudly about his shoulders.

  Rob’s scarred forehead gained little attention, but Shikee’s terrible wounds seemed the envy of every male in the Endless Hills, and despite his apparent indifference to the admiring eyes of eligible young girls in the village on Cisna Run or the fishing camps on the Buffalo Creek, Rob noticed that the paint adorning Shikee’s wounds was never old or dull.

  9

  1749 – The Warrior

  The Warrior came to E’shan’s lodge without warning. One moment the meadow lay empty; in the next, he appeared soundlessly among them exuding a menace that turned Rob’s mouth dust-dry and made E’shan pause in his point making.

  The Warrior was often spoken of in awed and fearful whispers. Except that he was the mightiest and most dedicated killer in the Six Nations, few knew more of his past. Some claimed that The Warrior was the son of the Great Spirit. Others might doubt that heritage, but his abilities to destroy enemies at will were uncontested. The greatest of Iroquois killers warred without rest; he bore scars that shamed even Shikee’s, and he desired little other than new enemies of his people to seek out and destroy.

  The Warrior stood as the epitome of the savage fighting man and was the ideal of every budding warrior. He was sometimes called The Iroquois for lack of another name and, because among nations of warriors, he outshone all others.

  Rob had listened to the tales of The Warrior’s prowess. They had told of his penetration into the very villages and lodges of enemies to
slay all who dared raise a hatchet. Yet, he traveled alone or with only one other. Never did The Warrior lead war parties, but when coups were counted, the Six Nations’ greatest killer dominated all others.

  Rob instantly recognized the savage figure that materialized before them. Such a hero could be no other. Tall for a white and a giant among Indians, clad only in breechclout and moccasins, herculean muscles rippled like serpents beneath a bronze skin crisscrossed by a multitude of gashed and puckered scars of battle. The wounds were unpainted, as though their presence was beneath their bearer’s notice.

  Rob Shatto had secretly doubted the blood-curdling tales of The Warrior’s ferocity in battle, but the victor of a thousand combats, scarred by countless battles, emitted a barely caged fury that chilled Rob’s soul, and he doubted no more.

  The Warrior’s hair was shaved to a narrow scalp lock. The shaven skull and features were painted, the right side black and the left dead white. The effect was frightening to behold, as though The Warrior were more than one and deadly in purpose.

  Despite the magnificently muscled frame and warlike decoration, The Warrior’s eyes were his most compelling feature. Jet black, they glittered with frightening intensity from behind lowered brows.

  A pair of tomahawks and a scalping knife were The Warrior’s only weapons, and as a worker of metal, Rob could not fault the killer’s hatchets and knife. All were of iron and finely made. The Warrior obviously did not share E’shan’s disdain of the white man’s goods.

  It was said The Warrior rarely spoke, and that he often used language that few understood. Such could be true, for he acknowledged the presence of Rob and Shikee by only a glance while completely ignoring the quaking squaws. He crouched by E’shan’s baskets of arrowheads choosing some and discarding others.

  Leaning close, Shikee whispered to Rob as if normal tones might desecrate the sanctity of The Warrior’s presence.

  “The Warrior pays for his points with gifts of his own choosing. He once gave my grandfather belts of wampum worth many times the few points he claimed. Another time, he gave only a few shiny river stones.”

  Shikee sniffed in amusement. “But, a wise man does not haggle with The Warrior lest the killer’s displeasure be aroused.”

  Inspired by the qualities he saw in the famed hero and wishing to somehow convey his admiration for such a fighter, Rob turned to his own corner of the lodge and returned with the six bone arrowheads he had completed during the summer. The arrowheads were as carefully matched as his skill allowed, and he had dyed the sharpened tips with vermilion which many believed made an arrow fly true to its target.

  He waited as The Warrior removed an object from his hunting bag and presented it to E’shan whose expressionless face gave no hint of satisfaction or rejection.

  Rob forced himself to step forward, offering his bone points to the fighter of the Six Nations. Suddenly hesitant and doubting his own wisdom, his confidence fled and turned to painful embarrassment as the renowned killer stood silently examining his outstretched hand. The moment became an eternity, and Rob wondered what foolish arrogance had made him offer his clumsy trinkets to the Nations’ mightiest warrior?

  Then, The Warrior accepted the points. He weighed them in his hand much as E’shan had done. His eyes captured Rob’s, and the strength of the killer’s presence became so powerful Rob feared his knees would betray him, and he would collapse on the spot.

  Without speaking, the bronzed giant turned and loped across the meadow, the points still in his hand. Rob watched with pounding heart as the mighty figure ran as easily as a light-boned child until he disappeared within the timber. Rob’s relieved sigh echoed Shikee’s. The aura of The Warrior was too powerful for ordinary men.

  For some time, the visit of the Iroquois killer dominated conversation in E’shan’s lodge. Now, when the tales of his valor were told, Rob listened fervently, and where he once might have scoffed, he could now believe them true.

  — — —

  George Croghan came again in the early fall. He led a twelve horse pack train to the Ohio country. Croghan had left his train to continue along the Allegheny path while he cut cross country to pay Rob for his horses.

  The trader carried a large pack mainly of tobacco for payment of Rob’s keep, but Croghan found E’shan unwilling to accept more than token gifts. Rob, E’shan informed the trader, was as his own grandson, and a Delaware did not accept payment for keeping his own family. Rob had saved the life of Shikee, his gift of arrowheads had been accepted by The Warrior himself, and E’shan joked, Rob brought almost as much meat to the lodge as he ate.

  Despite his need to rejoin his horse train before it edged into the Path Valley, Croghan insisted that Rob relate the activities about which E’shan spoke. As Rob talked, sitting cross-legged in the Indian fashion, George Croghan more than listened.

  Although it had gone unnoticed, Rob Shatto had turned seventeen during the hot summer. The boy gunsmith was gone, and in his place, Croghan saw an already physically powerful young man. They spoke without difficulty in the Delaware tongue so that Shikee could join in. Rob bore his own scar from the panther fight, and the nick in his left eyebrow lent him a rakish nonchalance that Croghan knew would excite many a female either Indian or white. Rob wore his weapons without awareness. The pistol, tomahawk, and knife had become as accepted as his breechclout.

  George Croghan seriously doubted that Robbie Shatto still required his good offices among the Six Nations councils. The boy had become a man. Accepted into the lodge of an influential Delaware elder, Rob spoke the favored language, and he had acquired a reputation for courage and loyalty. Croghan expected that if he never returned, Rob Shatto would succeed on his own.

  Croghan, too, had news. He had split the team Rob had asked him to sell. Two horses had gone to an older couple who would use the animals to transport themselves. The other pair he had traded to Thomas Reed who ran the ordinary in Carlisle. Having often seen the animals, Reed knew their value, and to clinch the deal, Croghan had explained Rob’s presence in the Indian country. So, it was no longer a secret that Rob Shatto had crossed the mountain and planned to make his place within the Endless Hills.

  Concerning the Iroquois council’s approval of Rob’s presence, Croghan had no direct news, but as a Lancaster Justice, he had taken part in a recent attempt to remove squatters from the Indian country. A group appointed by the courts had descended on the Juniata River, Sherman’s Creek, Cove Creek, and the western shore Fishing Creek. They had physically removed all of the squatters they had found and burned the cabins. The Girtys had been among those run off, and Croghan had since heard that Simon was living across the Susquehanna on Fishing Creek near Fort Hunter.

  To Rob’s query concerning his own undisturbed presence, Croghan--eyes atwinkle--opined that Rob had become so much Indian that they had been doubtful that he could be found, and as Rob did not even have a cabin to burn, no one had bothered to search for him.

  It appeared that white authorities would make no effort to return Rob Shatto to civilization unless the chiefs of the Nations so demanded, and with the quantity of Shatto trade goods scattered about, such a request was highly improbable.

  10

  1749 – The Flint Quarry

  Before the snows made travel difficult, E’shan decided a trip to the flint-stone quarry was in order. E’shan claimed that in all of the Endless Hills only one ledge of flint was suitable for arrowheads, and it was to that ledge they would journey.

  Many hunters brought arrowpoint blanks with them to trade to E’shan for finished points, but with long winter months approaching, there would be little trade, and E’shan could rebuild his depleted stock for busier spring hunting.

  The lodge was left vacant, its flap loosely closed, and except for E’shan who clung to his dignity, the entire party looked on the journey as a picnic and welcome relief from daily routine.

  The trip was not long, and except for Rob and Shikee’s blankets, Fat and Flat carried all that w
as necessary. E’shan strode majestically, his pace determining the rate of march while his squaws brought up the rear gabbling and pointing between themselves. Rob and Shikee ranged far afield. They climbed the ridges and howled like wolves; they hid along the trail gobbling like turkeys and snarling like panthers. E’shan ignored their antics, and the squaws pretended surprise and fear along with much giggling.

  Their route lay down the valley of the Little Buffalo and across the Juniata River at a ford three hundred yards above the stream. They turned up the river and nooned at a small stream a mile north of the ford. While E’shan smoked, the squaws cooked a small meal. As befitted the party’s warriors and scouts, Shikee and Rob amused themselves contributing only their hearty appetites.

  The route to the quarry continued up the river, across Wildcat Creek, and into the hills that bordered the river on the north. They stumbled a short distance along a poor path that led up a narrow draw and saw on their left a shelving bank where the usual shale had given way exposing a veined ledge of hard, flint stone. Chips and broken pieces of the flint covered the base of the hill where generations of seekers had broken away the ledge for points, scrapers, and awls.

  Fat and Flat made camp, and E’shan showed Rob and Shikee how the stone should be broken and brought to him for rough shaping and selection. E’shan expected enough stone to be ready within three days. He then retired to his pipe and his thoughts well out of sight and hearing while Rob and Shikee surveyed their task.

  Shikee, who could wait unmoving during the interminable approach of a turkey gobbler, was immediately frustrated by the work ahead. Days of chipping and pounding were not a warrior’s way of living. So he informed Rob—but well out of E’shan’s hearing.

  While his friend grumbled about squaws’ work and smashed futilely at the ledge with a large rock, Rob examined the stone outcropping with interest. He could see that the flint stone had been formed by unimaginable pressures and lay in definite strata which broke away under determined pounding to form thin slabs of about the desired thickness. The slabs were then smashed, hopefully into suitable arrowpoint blanks. The half acre of ruined stone scattered below the ledge told Rob that more rock was wasted than used.