Ironhawk (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series Book 6)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Chapter Four

  Blue Moccasin arrived on time. He rode in from Harris's Ferry on the finest horse Rob had ever seen.

  Rob was awed. "Now that horse is purely noble, Blue. I swear, he's studyin' me as hard as I am him."

  "If you want him, he is yours, Quehana."

  James Cummens was quick to make such offers, but Rob suspected the wily businessman knew his friend and was certain he would not accept such lavish gifts. One of these days Rob planned simply to say, "Thank you," and walk away with whatever Blue Moccasin had offered.

  Rob said, "Dang it, Blue, I wrote you not to wear moccasins, but there you sit with 'em on."

  Blue dismounted and held out a hand for Quehana's firm grip. "You also wrote that the youth we are to divert was not to appear before the full moon. My boots are clearly in view behind my saddle, and I can change into them at any time."

  Flat came from the house, her arms held wide in the white way to embrace one of her favorites. Blue Moccasin called her princess and the Delaware flowed like liquid from his lips. If Blue had skills in business they were nothing compared to his ability to use pleasing words.

  Quehana said, "And that's another thing. I told you the boy wasn't to hear you speak Delaware or any other Indian tongue. I don't want him suspecting that you are anything more than a white flat-land man."

  Cummens shook his head. "Rob, the boy is not here yet. I will not forget—when it is time."

  Rob sniffed in irritation. "You're probably goin' to mess this all up."

  Blue arched an eyebrow. "I will probably save your wretched scheme." He stomped into the house calling for Becky.

  When Cummens was finished greeting Becky and Will Miller, he and Rob stood together gazing across the handsome field of corn. Blue drew in air before allowing the lungful to flow from his nose. "What I should do is build a fine moose hide lodge under the oak where E'shan used to work. I could seek out a pair of squaws like Fat and Flat to care for the place when I am absent. Such living would rest my soul."

  Quehana was not convinced. "What would you do? Sit there and chip flint as E'shan did? You would grow tired of Indian life very quickly, Blue. The difference between whites and Indians is that Indians are content with little and can sit back and enjoy their lives. Whites can't do that, and if they have a spare instant, they make up something to keep them busy. You've got to remember, James Cummens, that you have lived a whole lot of your life among whites."

  "What? I lived among my Delaware people as long as you have, Quehana, and I would willingly do so again."

  "Horse feathers! You rushed around delivering messages to anyone anywhere, and you went tramping off all the way up past Lake Huron with The Warrior that one summer. You lived off everybody else, and I can't just off-hand ever recall you killing even a single deer or turkey."

  Blue grinned. "Ah, how you envy me, Quehana. While you were struggling with stones to build this monument you now live in, I was visiting among the people, being loved by all and admired by the maidens of every village."

  Rob smiled back. "I surely do envy you that part, Blue." He chuckled, "But, I don't recall Toquisson, that Shawnee Jack Elan put under, exactly loving you, and I could name some more, if you'd like recalling them."

  Blue Moccasin shuddered in memory.

  "Toquisson, the heart eater, was evil, Quehana. I am pleased that he hated me. I would not wish to be known as one of his companions. I can remember how Toquisson's eyes glittered with madness when I delivered Jack's challenge to him."

  Blue shrugged away the memory, "And, I am at least as pleased that Elan shot him dead."

  Blue paused to ask, "How is Jack? Will he come over while I am here?"

  Rob laughed aloud. "Elan will see your horse tracks. Fact is, he's probably on his way by now. I swear, that man scouts more than I do. Him bein' south of me don't help much with hostiles, though. Maybe I can get he and Martha to move over north of Middle Ridge somewhere. Then Jack can take 'em on before they get to me."

  Elan did arrive, and the men closed the evening at Rob's fire. It was a time for remembering, and stories flowed with the ease of many rehearsals. Each tale had been heard and retold many times, but that was true because the stories were favored memories, enjoyed by all.

  Blue Moccasin said to Elan, "I have never understood why The Warrior followed you all the way back to Tuscarora Mountain, feeding you squirrels, just keeping you alive so that you could plug along until Quehana found you on the mountain."

  Elan smiled broadly. "I suppose he just liked me, Blue."

  Rob Shatto took the question more seriously. "I expect The Warrior admired the fight Jack was putting up. I can imagine him siding with an underdog like Jack was just then. The Warrior was always looking for courage and heart, and seeing a livin' skeleton like Jack was, making an escape from smack in the middle of a Shawnee village, must have struck him as mighty brave."

  Elan said, "Fact is, The Warrior's the only Injun I've got good memories of. Don't care what half of you is, Blue, if I don't never see another redskin again I'll be real pleased."

  Blue Moccasin nodded acceptance and understanding. "You aren't special in that attitude, but you should remember that the Indians feel exactly the same about you whites who have come trampling onto their land. The only difference is that you will soon see the last of the Indians, but they will only see more and more white faces."

  "Too bad about them." Elan's voice held no sympathy.

  Both Rob and Blue Moccasin understood their friend's emotions. Elan had seen his wife and son murdered by Shawnee, and he himself had survived capture and almost certain death by the same band. Jack Elan had no fond memories of Indians. He had fought them through the French War and stood ready to do so again.

  Rob said, "That reminds me, Jack. Blue and I are putting on a little play acting during the time of the full moon. This will involve Indians, and we won't need your moaning and complaining when we are trying to make our feelings known. We don't want you around during that time."

  Elan took no offense. Indians of many tribes appeared at Quehana's lodge. Mostly they came to trade for iron arrow points or hatchet heads, but a few came to counsel. If Indians were about, Elan quickly faded away.

  Jack said, "You know, Rob, I've often thought how easy it would be to lay out somewhere down the Little Buffalo and just pick off them Injuns that come visiting you. I could collect a valuable pile of trade scalps without havin' to go far at all."

  Blue snorted. "Jack, you may not like Indians, but you haven't taken to killing for money just yet. There won't be any more trading for scalps, anyway. That was war trade, and if you showed up with a scalp these days someone would throw you in their jail."

  Quehana asked, "Just how many scalps have you ever taken, Jack?"

  He answered his own question. "You didn’t even take Toquisson's hair, and if you didn’t take that murdering animal’s scalp you aren’t likely to take anybody else’s."

  Elan gave a little. "Well, if we’re talkin’ serious I’ll agree that I might not take scalps, but any hostiles of any tribe that come my way will hear old Deathgiver speak." Elan stroked his double-barreled black rifle affectionately.

  Neither Quehana nor Blue Moccasin doubted Elan's words.

  Jack asked, "What is it you two are plannin' on doin' over here?" He glared suspiciously, "You ain't going to do a lot of drummin’ an' dancin' are you? The sound'll carry all the way over to my place, an' Martha won't be able to sleep."

  Before they could answer he grumbled, "I hate that Injun drummin'. It fair sets my teeth on edge."

  Rob said, "I didn't know that, Jack. If I had, I'd have gotten Flat and Becky and maybe Will Miller as well and just drummed up a thunderstorm or two. Fact is, now that I know, you can expect to hear a lot of drum beating floating across the ridge."

  Elan growled, "I'm considerin' movin' to a different valley anyway." Then he insisted, "Well, what is it you’re going to be doin’?"

  Rob answered for them. "
Well, an old Delaware hunter that I used to know came by and asked that I get his son interested in something other than being the greatest warrior that ever lived. So, Blue and I are going to try."

  Elan snorted, "There ain't any Delaware warriors anymore, Rob, you know that. Their agreement with the Iroquois don't let 'em have fighting men anymore."

  Blue Moccasin groaned aloud. "Jack, you are the perfect example of why most of the human race should not be allowed to know anything. Somehow, everything you hear gets twisted until it is no longer the truth and is never anywhere near being accurate.

  "The treaty between the Iroquois and the Delaware dissolved the Delaware warrior societies and the right of the Delaware to attack other people. The Delaware can have all of the warriors they desire, but they can only defend their own villages or fight alongside the Iroquois. By treaty, the Iroquois are required to defend the Delaware on their lands, and the Iroquois are sworn to consider the Delaware as women of their confederacy.

  "As you may know, women are the holders of all property and are considered exceptionally wise. Among the Iroquois, lineage is handed down through the women's side, unlike some other tribes where families are named after the fathers."

  Elan said, "Well, that ain't what I've always heard. Way I was told, The Warrior was the last of them real warriors, and he wasn't Delaware anyway. He was actually Iroquois himself, weren't he?"

  Keeping his features serious, Blue said, "The Warrior's mother was Seneca, which even you know is Iroquois, Jack. His father is said to have been the Great Spirit himself, but . . ."

  Elan's sound of disgust cut him off.

  "Blue, you don't for a minute believe any of that, why . . ."

  It was Blue Moccasin's turn to interrupt.

  "No one knows, Jack, and I will simply ask, Have you ever seen another human being who looked like The Warrior?"

  Elan was not defensive. "Well, I didn't know him like you did, Blue, but, yep, I know someone who is just as huge and muscular and durned near as menacing as he was, an' so do you." Elan jerked his thumb in Quehana's direction."

  Rob groaned in embarrassment.

  Blue tipped his hat forward in admission. "You've a point there, Jack, but what you don't know is that you have stepped onto the reason old Tree Shadow is sending his youngest son to speak with Quehana.

  "The boy is enamored with the idea of The Warrior, and . . ."

  "What's 'enamored,' Blue? You're always stickin' in words that real people don't use."

  "Enamored is used all of the time, Jack, but it means entranced." He saw Elan's incomprehension and tried again. It means he is taken with the idea of being The Warrior. According to Tree Shadow, it eats the boy up, so we are going to give him something else to aim for."

  "And what'll that be?"

  Blue Moccasin had to hedge a little. "Well, we are still working on that."

  Elan chuckled. "You'd best get on with it, 'cause the moon will be full either tomorrow or the next night."

  Blue Moccasin's voice was sardonic.

  "Thank you for the notification, Jack. Neither of us, city-livers knew that."

  Rob enjoyed the exchange. "We've got most of it worked out, Jack. I've been tapping out a totem at the forge for more than a month, and Blue will add something special that just might do the trick-assuming we don't somehow botch the job."

  Rob shook his head in concern. "I can't claim that we know what we are doing this time. I surely never tried anything like it. Then, I've got to wonder how long what we do will last, no matter how strong a mark we put on the boy."

  "What are you goin' to do, teach him to shoot or somethin' like that? Shooting always impresses Injuns. Don't it, Blue?"

  "Good shooting impresses everyone, Jack."

  Rob said, "We'll tell you what we did and how it went after it's done, Jack. Just don't you come over the hill or go peeking around some bushes trying to see what is happening. We expect that this will be a very delicate treatment, and we won't want any distractions."

  Elan said, "If you're going to do some shooting, He ought to see my double gun. Old Deathgiver puts them single-shot rifles of yours to shame."

  Quehana chuckled, "Funny, Jack, I've never seen you win any silver shooting that old club. Deathgiver is all right close in, I suppose, but at any range it . . ."

  Elan was indignant. "Some rifles are for targets, and some are for shooting game and Injuns, Shatto. Deathgiver was made for killin' Shawnee, an’ you'll have to admit it did what it was built for."

  Rob had to agree. "You had the right rifle, Jack. There is no argument there. Of course . . ." He let the question ride knowing that Elan would respond.

  "No of courses about it, Rob. I had two Shawnee on me and needed both barrels. There weren’t no time to reload or hardly to take aim." His lip curled. "Just what would you have done with the single-barrel you tote around?"

  Elan's voice choked on the last word as the muzzle of Rob's two-barreled pistol touched the end of his nose.

  Rob said, "Oh, I'd think of something, Jack."

  Elan added, "Well, that ain't a real bad answer you've got right there, Robby."

  Jack Elan went home, working his way across the ridge by the light of the almost full moon. Until the height of the ridge interfered, he occasionally howled like a wolf, barked like a dog, and once he snarled like a panther. Blue Moccasin, who could imitate better than anyone Rob had ever heard, did the answering.

  Between calling, Rob returned to their still evolving plan to seduce Young-Son from warrior ways.

  "I'm changing the plan, Blue. I want you in moccasins with your hair let down so he'll see your braids, and you can talk Delaware to him. Fact is, I've figured out that you should do more than just present the white side of things."

  Blue Moccasin sighed as if in resignation.

  "I had hoped that your slower country mind would eventually decide that your tools were not as sharp as my city-honed intellect, and I have wondered how I would influence a youth who did not understand English if I was not to speak Delaware. I hoped that you would eventually discover more possibilities than your first planning indicated."

  Rob's glare went unnoticed by Blue Moccasin, so he began elaborating on his improved idea.

  Blue agreed and added points that Rob was pleased to include. Before more sticks were needed on their fire, almost everything had been worked out, and both believed Young-Son would profit greatly from their scheming.

  Chapter Five

  New Warrior, mightiest of all Delaware fighters, strode purposefully. His pack was heavier than most warriors could carry, and he was armed with a knife of iron presented by his father for this journey. After leaving the lodge, he had placed duck feathers in his headband but wished that he had come upon eagle feathers, which were more befitting his lengthy and certainly dangerous adventure.

  New Warrior, a secret name he had recently adopted, supposed he had wasted daylight studying the river’s edge for enemy sign, and it was full morning of the second day before he made the turn up the Little Buffalo.

  He knew his route because his father, Tree Shadow, had explained it, and as instructed, he had slept the night at a fire pit his father had described. The distance to be traveled was further than he had expected, and he knew he must move steadily to arrive at the lodge of Quehana when the sun was high.

  Quehana, the name ran powerfully in his thoughts. Yet, until a few moons past his father had never mentioned the killer of Shawnees. Now, no meal or evening passed without a story of the Delaware fighter, and finally Tree Shadow had decided that Young-Son should travel alone, down the river and far into strange mountains to himself meet the great warrior.

  Never before had Young-Son journeyed far from his family’s lodge, but he took the trail with confidence, for he had imagined himself on such adventurous treks—usually in search of enemy invaders of Delaware lands.

  Quehana was said to be large and powerful. Not like The Warrior, of course, and Quehana lived in a stone and wood
lodge in the white way.

  Tree Shadow claimed that Quehana had exceeded all others in the contests at the Warrior Marks, but that the Shawnee killer had not appeared there for many seasons. Tree Shadow suggested that, like The Warrior, Quehana had grown beyond such child-like contesting.

  Young-Son was not sure of the intent of his visit. Perhaps it was only to allow him to meet one of the known people of the Delaware. With the villages broken and the families scattered, such meetings were important to hold together those who remained on the traditional lands.

  Ahead, the trail split and followed the final branches of the Little Buffalo. Young-Son knew to take the left fork. He could see the notch in the ridge where the stream ran, and only a short run further he would find the lodge of Quehana and what Tree Shadow described as corn plantings of great splendor.

  Young-Son lifted his pace to a proper trot and again became New Warrior, most powerful of all Delaware fighters.

  He trotted through the notch and into the thinner forest beyond. As the light increased he lifted his eyes from the trail and . . . The heart of Young-Son nearly burst from his chest. His legs became water, and his eyes blurred. Even his breathing hesitated, and he found he had halted, and feared that he might collapse where he stood.

  The Warrior had returned! He filled the trail only paces ahead. His mighty body blocked the light of the sky, and he towered above Young-Son as an oak among weeds. The mind of Young-Son staggered because even in his dreaming he had not seen The Warrior in all of his might and power.

  Eyes as black as fire pits drove through the soul of Young-Son and when the awesome figure extended an arm, muscle roiled like serpents beneath the lightly bronzed skin.

  But the mind of Young-Son again faltered because the vast breadth of muscled chest bore no twisted scarring, and The Warrior who carried only tomahawks now bore a white man's gun.

  The voice, when it came was strong, and the Delaware tongue was sweet to the boy's ear, but it was not the somehow frightening rumble of The Warrior that Young-Son remembered.

  "Welcome, Young-Son. I am Quehana of the Delaware."