Arrowmaker (Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  The Indian had moved along the hillside as though unsure of his destination then dropped lower directly above the house. Moving soundlessly on the damp forest floor, Rob saw the moccasins attached to a pair of briar-scarred legs protruding from beneath a bush where the Indian lay peering down on the activities around the home.

  The legs were skinny, and Rob realized they belonged to a very young Shawnee boy. Rob thrust a leg into the brush pinning the boy to the ground with his foot and said in his poor Shawnee, “Who seeks Quehana?”

  Air swooshed from the boy’s lungs, and his hands flew sideward as Rob’s foot forced him flat to the earth. Eyes rolling, trying to see who had so completely trapped him, the boy stuttered a name that Rob took to be Musquash, a universal name among many tribes for Muskrat.

  Other than a badly worn iron knife, the boy had no weapons, and Rob reached down with one great hand, grasped Musquash by the back of his clout, hauled him through the brush, and roughly planted him on his feet.

  The youth was an unlikely looking specimen. He appeared bony to the point of emaciation, and his moccasins were too worn to repair. The boy’s pouch hung limp, a ragged and nearly useless trade blanket hung over a shoulder, and judging the healing and half-healed scratches covering him, he had traveled long and hard.

  Rob judged the youth’s age to be about fourteen or so, and his thoughts drifted back to Simon Girty at the same age. Simon had looked a heap better than this plucked chicken. Still, the boy looked at him straight, and he stood good. The youth must be more than a trifle scared, but beyond a little quiver around the knees, he did not show it. Rob wished his Shawnee was better, but he had never had the chance to work at it.

  Rob said, “Why does the Shawnee, Musquash, spy on the lodge of Quehana?”

  For the first time, the boy’s eyes dropped, and he moved nervously. His voice was still childishly high. “I came to gaze upon Quehana.” The words were clearly inadequate, and the boy twisted in confusion.

  Rob wanted more facts. “Does Musquash travel alone?”

  He did.

  “From what village do you come?”

  Musquash said, “Chillicothe,” and Rob’s eyes flew open.

  “Your village is Chillicothe, on the Scioto, beyond the Ohio?”

  It was, and the youth was clearly proud that his village was known.

  Although Rob had never been there, he knew the Shawnee village lay probably three hundred miles across the mountains. If the Shawnee sprout had actually made such a journey, it was no wonder he was worn out.

  “And Musquash has made this journey to spy on Quehana?”

  The boy drew his scrawny frame fiercely erect. “Musquash does not spy! He comes to see Quehana with his own eyes. A warrior must scout before he enters a strange camp.”

  Rob grunted agreement and thought how hungry the boy looked.

  Warrior, huh! Musquash was still a child, but what a warrior he could become. Anyone who could successfully cross the wilderness of the Endless Hills beyond the Tuscarora was already a skilled adventurer.

  The Shawnee were scratchy people, and Rob knew little enough about them. He would enjoy talking with the boy and learning how the tribes fared in their western strongholds.

  Musquash willingly followed him to the house, and Becky and Flat stuffed his lean belly while the boy gazed awestruck at Quehana’s lodge. Then they toured the buildings, waiting until Flat heated Rob’s sweat lodge in preparation for steaming the poisons from their bodies.

  At the forge, Rob dug around until he found a few of the old iron arrowheads and presented them to Musquash with only a little ceremony. Iron arrowpoints were now common, but the whiskey still captured the boy’s imagination. The copper boiler and coiled tubing seemed miraculous to a youth experiencing his first views of the white man’s world.

  They squatted, watching a few hogs root below the still house. Musquash said, “When he comes, Two Nose will kill these fat animals!”

  Startled, Rob asked, “Who is Two Nose?”

  “Quehana does not know his enemy?” It was Musquash’s turn to be surprised.

  “I have met no one known as Two Nose.”

  “Once, Two Nose was called Nithichi. He became Two Nose after Quehana took the scalps of his warriors and gave him two noses.”

  A picture of his tomahawk slicing into the face of the Shawnee who had taken Becky flashed through Rob’s mind. That would be Two Nose!

  Anxious to learn what he could of the enemy he thought had died in the woods, Rob forced a chuckle.

  “Ah, Two Nose. I had forgotten him--as one forgets a passing woods rat.”

  The boy’s sucked in breath demonstrated his surprise, so Rob continued.

  “Two Nose stood frozen in fear while his warriors fought. It was beneath Quehana’s honor to take the scalp of one without courage.”

  The youth understood honor. “Two Nose says that he fought bravely against Quehana, but he was blinded by his wounds. Two Nose is not good to look upon, and until he found his medicine, he lived many moons alone in the forest. Now, Two Nose shows his medicine, and warriors cover their mouths and listen to his words. Two Nose speaks only of the death of Quehana and the many trophies to be taken from his lodge,

  “Musquash has heard much of Quehana, of his magic points, his great strength, and his power in battle. Musquash left the lodge of his father to see Quehana before Two Nose and his warriors strike. When the Shawnee rise against the whites, Two Nose will come. He will march with many, and he will cast aside the Delaware totems, for his medicine is strong.”

  Rob was impressed. “Musquash knows much of Two Nose. What is his medicine that makes warriors listen to his words?”

  “Two Nose passed through a woods where there was no sound. His moccasins were silent in the leaves, and when he struck his bow against a tree, the forest remained silent. Fearful, Two Nose turned to leave the magic forest, but a voice spoke within his head. ‘Go further.’ Two Nose did and came upon The Warrior sitting in death.

  “The voice, which Two Nose now knew to be that of The Warrior, said, ‘I am your medicine! Through my strength you will be always victorious, and through my power Quehana will die!’

  “Two Nose took the skin of The Warrior and tanned it soft as doe skin. He carries the skin of The Warrior. The skin is scarred by a thousand wounds, and all can tell that it is the true skin of The Warrior.”

  So, a cast-out had found the dead body of The Warrior and skinned him, and that made him powerful. “Does not the Shawnee know that The Warrior cannot rest until his skin is buried?”

  “The voice within the head of Two Nose told that The Warrior will not rest until Quehana also rests.”

  Rob asked, “Do not the Shawnee know that The Warrior gave Quehana his name?”

  “Some hear only the words of Two Nose. Chief Puckinwah says nothing, but the Kispokotha, who have been the trainers of warriors, listen with interest.”

  “When will Two Nose come, Musquash?”

  “When the Shawnee rise. Perhaps next year or the next. Perhaps no one will know until there is a sign.”

  Rob controlled his irritation and planned a pointed response. Only a year earlier he had performed an elaborate ceremony intended to impress a youth of even more tender years than Musquash. Then, he had used the imitating skills of Blue Moccasin, the message carrier, and the Delaware boy now called Iron Hawk had been mightily swayed. Blue was not about, so Flat would be enlisted in his place.

  “When Musquash returns to Chillicothe will he bear a message from Quehana? The message will be to Two Nose but for all of the village to know. This is the message.”

  Still squatting, Rob’s tomahawk appeared in his hand. The blade whipped in a silvered arc, and driven by muscle hardened from years at the anvil and ax, buried itself into a fallen log.

  “Will Musquash return Quehana’s tomahawk?”

  The youth hastened to comply. He tugged but the hatchet did not move. Rob leaned across his shoulder and with a mighty heave f
reed the tomahawk.

  “Quehana’s hatchet waits for Two Nose, and Quehana goes now to prepare a place for the scalp of the two-nosed rat.”

  The awed boy followed Rob as he strode to the front of his house. Reaching high, he tore away a ragged scrap of a Shawnee scalp. He handed the scrap to Musquash.

  “Place in your pouch the hair of a warrior who fought while Two Nose ran. Give it to your people that the fighter can rest. Tell your people that Quehana’s lodge now waits only the scalp of the woods rat, Two Nose!”

  — — —

  The honor of sitting in the sweat lodge with Quehana was almost too much for the boy. They sat naked, gazing into the steam. Sweat rolled from their bodies, and the heat pressed them into a lassitude that allowed the mind to wander and raised strange thoughts and visions.

  Rob said, “Quehana sees before the boy Musquash many changes and a journey so great his walk to the lodge of Quehana will be as nothing.”

  Despite the heat, bumps rose on the skin of Musquash, and a delicious chill ran over his body.

  Quehana continued his vision.

  “I see Musquash, who is Oshasqua in Shawnee and Muskrat in the tongue of the whites, turning his eyes to the great mountains far beyond the father of rivers called Mississippi.

  “Musquash will go to the mountains where all things are as they were before the white man. In the mountains that reach the sky, the warrior today called Musquash will gain honor, and his lodge will be happy with his name known to many tribes. In the Shining Mountains he may meet the Delaware Shikee who will be his friend, and they will speak together of Quehana who gave the youth Musquash his warrior name.”

  Musquash’s breath whistled through his teeth. Rob sat cross-legged, his palms facing upward on his knees. He cast his eyes skyward as if invoking a special message and tipped his head as though listening.

  A wild goose honked in the distance, and Rob’s eyes snapped open. The goose again honked, and Musquash saw Quehana smile through the steam, and bumps again ran across his body.

  “The sign is given! The Great Spirit has caused the wild goose to call when the geese are away. Musquash travels as does the wild goose. Musquash has before him a journey such as only the wild goose can know.

  “Quehana takes from the boy his name of Musquash.”

  Rob’s hand snatched at the boy as if catching a fly in the air.

  “And, Quehana gives the Shawnee warrior his name, Neeake, the Wild Goose!”

  Musquash, the Wild Goose, knew that he cried in happiness and hoped that the mighty Quehana could not see his tears through the steam of the sweat lodge. Later, they swam in Quehana’s stream, and Quehana’s old squaw gave him gifts of new moccasins, a new knife, and iron fish hooks with horse hair strings. He was given a pack of pemmican and a new and thick blanket so red that it’s color hurt the eyes. Near dusk, Neeake the Shawnee strode proudly from the meadow of the Little Buffalo. Quehana sent a wild goose cry after him, and Neeake vowed to practice his own goose call until it did him credit.

  Rob reentered his home dropping the bar behind him. He looked at Flat sitting with Will at the table. “You did well, Flat.” She nodded, content to have pleased him.

  Will stretched, “Somethin’ I got left out of goin’ on around here?”

  Rob laughed shortly. “Well, I needed a sign to impress our Shawnee guest. An Indian boy gets re-named during his growing up years, and it should be something to remember. So, Flat listened outside the sweat lodge until the right moment, then she hustled off and called twice like a wild goose. Not likely to be geese around just now, so the sign was as good as I’d hoped.

  “I figure we gave that boy a lot to think on today, and maybe we turned him away from the fighting that’s sure to come.”

  Rob’s thoughts turned to the Shawnee Two Nose, and pleasure left him.

  30

  1763 - The Attack

  In celebration of his thirtieth birthday, Becky had baked fruit pies, and he had eaten too much. So, on his morning scout, Rob moved a little quicker, working away the heavy feeling and snuffing the good damp smells of the forest.

  With the usual spring rumblings coming from the western tribes, Rob kept his eyes hard at work, but his mind was free to wander. He wished that word of Sattelihu would come in. Montour had indicated interest in land to the north along Loyalsock Creek, and Rob had lost his track. Croghan lingered at the forks of the Ohio where he served intermittently as Indian Agent. Rob expected that Croghan too had put Sherman’s Valley behind him. He supposed that was the way of true frontiersmen. They seemed to sense trouble and invariably moved toward it.

  He sometimes wished he could travel west and scout the new lands, but those were fleeting wishes. In Sherman’s Valley lay all that a man could truly desire.

  He worked swiftly along the south ridge and was crossing the western dip toward Castle Knob, when the first shot sounded. The thud of a musket was followed by a ragged fusillade, and Rob sprang to the wood’s edge looking back down the valley.

  In his meadow, a figure on a sled lashed his horse wildly toward the notch. As he watched, the horse crashed to the ground, and a moment later the deep boom of muskets again reached him. The figure leaped from the sled and bounded toward the house. From the edge of the north woods whooping warriors sprinted to cut off the runner, and Rob groaned aloud.

  A puff of smoke from near the house tumbled a charging Indian and gave the lone runner hope. For a moment, he appeared clear, then tumbled in the limp fall of one hard hit, and in an instant, savage figures clustered above him. The rifle again spoke from near the house, and a savage clutched an arm that dangled grotesquely as the war party dashed for the cover of the trees.

  Rob was too far to tell who had fallen in the attack. He had not seen the men go to the fields, but at least one of his people was dead, and others could have fallen in the first volley. He cursed the luck that had turned him first to the south ridge and given the hostiles time to move close.

  The thud of muskets began again, this time from the trees around the house. A brave ran into the meadow and fired the remains of the fall hay; flame and smoke roared skyward. Fighting had struck Shatto’s with vengeance.

  Steady gunfire showed the house had been closed before the attackers reached it. Rob could visualize the smoke-filled loft with his people at the loopholes and the babies crying beneath the stairs. They would hold out, he had little fear, but he prayed for their caution lest a ball catch someone at a loophole.

  Rob had thought through an attack so many times his movements were almost automatic, and he began a circle of the ridgeline to come through the timber and onto the raiders from the rear. He knew every bush and hollow of his land. He could guess where individual warriors would lie, and he knew how to reach them. As he moved through the forest, he wondered if this was Two Nose coming at last, and if the attack was isolated or one of many along the frontier. The year was 1763, and Rob already knew he would long remember it.

  Peter Bristline lay dead and scalped in the meadow. It was small comfort to Will Miller that he had killed one of the enemy and wounded another. He saw to the barring of the doors and closing of loopholes on the lower floor. Then he and John Woolever moved quickly to the upper story, and the women placed loaded muskets close to their hands. He thought of Flat alone at their cabin but could do nothing. Flat would have heard the shooting and would be safely hidden deep in the woods.

  Miller snapped a shot at a figure flitting through the trees and heard the deep roar of Woolever’s musket from a side loophole. Answering fire drummed against the log walls, and a ball entered a loophole and lodged in a far wall. The two of them could not cover all sides, but Will knew that Quehana was out there and would soon be among the hostiles like a wolf in a chicken coop.

  The sound of hatchets hacking at the front door rose to Will, and he considered raising the overhanging floor and firing down on the attackers. He decided on other tactics and hurried Woolever with him down the stairs—Becky stood read
y at the Dutch door, the way Rob had made them practice. The two men raised their shot-charged muskets, pointing chest high, and at Will’s signal, Becky jerked the top half of the door open. For an instant, a trio of astounded warriors saw the dark opening, but the two muskets blasted in their faces scything them from the doorway with a monstrous smash of shot. Instantly, Becky slammed the door closed, and the men dropped the bar as howls of rage rose from outside, and muskets blasted from a dozen points. The two men returned to their posts, and there was a momentary lull while both sides reloaded and took stock of their positions.

  The Shatto men waited, moving from loophole to loophole looking for targets. There was scraping along the building side and sudden scuttling on the roof. Will called down, “Becky, they’re on the roof! He could not tell if there was more than one, but he heard movement near the chimney.

  When the attack began, Becky placed water on to boil. At Will’s call, she pushed the fireplace crane aside, and, carrying an old horse pistol, she stepped into the fireplace and looked up the flue. The cooking fire used only a small portion of the great hearth, and there was room for her to stand. The sky appeared as a distant rectangle, and as she had noted before, looking up the chimney she could see stars even in daylight.

  She raised the heavy pistol, aiming it between the iron bars and waited. The sky was suddenly blotted, and she fired. The pistol kicked against her wrists, and its roar stopped her hearing. Soot and smoke roiled about her, and she stepped quickly back into the room. She listened with her shocked hearing, fearful that she had missed. In the chimney, there was sliding lead by an avalanche of soot and loosened clay, which was followed by a sodden thud. In a moment, blood began to drip from the dead Indian laying on the chimney rods. She slumped on the settle, suddenly exhausted, but fresh firing broke out, and she swung the kettle back into position, hoping the Indian’s body did not block the entire chimney.