Ironhawk (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series Book 6)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Chek had his rag ready, and he jammed it into her mouth even as the girl sought to restart her breathing. As she struggled to draw air in through her nose, he jerked her arms behind her back and flipped a length of rawhide around them.

  Chek's back fairly crawled. There they were out in the open, wrestling like bears, and who could tell when someone else would step out for morning relief? He hurried his binding, and as quick as his knot tightened, he hauled the captive off the path and behind the bush that disguised his ambush. Out of sight, he fastened a leather strap over the rag jamming her mouth, and jerked the girl to her feet.

  Chek Sheene did not bother to judge his captive's hard looks or perhaps tearing eyes. His nerves jumping like devils, he hustled her through the woods until he reached a small natural clearing at a turn of the trail where there was room to work.

  He hooted in his not so good owl imitation, and a moment later Yellow Jacket and his companions appeared. As if they had practiced, the Shawnees hoisted the woman and removed her shoes. She attempted to struggle but was easily subdued. Yellow Jacket donned the leather footwear, but Chek had him do it over again because the shoes were on the wrong feet. Good thing he caught that because even a non-tracker might have noticed.

  Yellow Jacket's moccasins were placed on the girl's feet, she was lowered, and dodging her futile kicks, the Shawnee hurried her away. Chek felt his heart beginning to slow. Everything was going according to plan.

  Yellow Jacket leading, the pair moved swiftly, and within minutes was at the pike, and Chok was there with most of their horses and mules. They mounted, and Chek took the girl's shoes and jammed them into a saddlebag. Yellow Jacket grumbled, until Chek produced a new pair of moccasins from the same bag and handed them to the barefooted Shawnee.

  They rode nearly a mile before Chok signaled the Indian off his horse, and they saw him soundlessly disappear into the thick timber.

  Chok said, "There's a pair of cabins just ahead. It'd be best if we turn before then."

  Chek nodded agreement. He rode a little way further trailing an extra horse while Chok turned the bulk of their animals. With Chok on his way home, Chek milled his mounts for a few moments attempting to disguise what had happened there. He doubted strongly that anyone could track horses on the well-traveled Lancaster Pike, but the extra caution took only moments. Then he trotted to catch up to his brother.

  They pulled into "Fingers" Harris's meadow and began stripping the saddles, bridles, and hackamores from the animals before Chek remembered the woman's shoes.

  "Oh lordy, Chok, Pap will kill us both."

  "No he won’t, Chek. Dig a deep hole over there where the horses stomp around. Put the shoes in and pack the dirt good. No one will ever find them."

  "That’s smart, Chok. We’ll tell him we put a stone in each shoe and sunk ’em in a swamp, like The Animal did with his bodies."

  Chok’s voice was ugly. "Pap told you never to speak of any of that, and you’d better keep it in mind, Chek. We don’t mention what The Animal does anywhere anytime, unless Pap brings it up first. Now get out of those boots and start digging."

  They were at Harris’s table when the alarm sounded.

  Zach asked, "What in hell is that? Injuns attacking?"

  Harris did not know. "Could be a fire, but we’d best go see."

  The news stirred the town. A girl was missing. No, she was not visiting. No, she hadn’t just run off. Simply gone to the privy and never came back. Men were looking, but the girl had not turned up.

  The Sheene men announced their decision to join in the search, and they encouraged others to start looking for sign back by the privy. The suggestion made sense, and men began looking closer.

  William Hawk appeared just as marks of a struggle were found near the privy path. Only the Sheenes really noticed the youth, but his presence did not particularly please them. Still, what could he find? There were no traces of what had really happened, and the search would go as the Sheenes had planned.

  Ironhawk raged within himself. He had little faith in the townsmen who sought the trail, but even they were able to follow Bright Morning's heel prints through the woods that surrounded the village.

  The pack hurried along the path, and Ironhawk was pushed aside as older men demanded their rightful places at the head of the hunt.

  The Hawk heard directions by the flat nosed man Quehana had smashed years before, and the search party moved swiftly to the pike itself. There the hunt faltered, but it was clear that Bright Morning had been placed on a horse, and a number of riders had headed toward Lancaster.

  Even as the pack churned undecided on what to do next, a six horse team dragging a pair of logs for the saw mill slogged up the pike, and the teamster was questioned closely as to what he had seen.

  Chek slanted an eye at Chok who almost winked at old Zach. It could not have been better. The logs and the team would have destroyed possible unraveling of the trail they had laid, and when the teamster claimed that he had seen no one, Zach offered that the captors had simply ridden off the Pike until the load had passed.

  Of course they would not wish to be seen. Chances were that the villains who had carried off the woman would leave the pike altogether and go east through the forests where no one could find them.

  Heads nodded agreement, and Ironhawk felt himself dying. There was talk that the sheriff should lead a search, and a man who was leaving later in the day offered to announce the kidnapping along his way.

  The discouraged group began to wander toward the village, and Ironhawk nearly despaired. Rage ate at his soul, but the suddenness and the unexpectedness of Bright Morning’s abduction left him weak and uncertain.

  Why would anyone take her? And how could he follow? He had not an inkling of direction or ability. He would try, of course. He never doubted that, but for the moment how he would try evaded him.

  Finally, the Hawk stood alone with only departing backs to distract him. He studied the almost obliterated marks of Bright Morning’s heel prints where she had mounted, but they told him nothing.

  A calling voice caught his attention.

  "Nothin’ to see there, boy. You’d best come back and help out with whatever gets done next."

  Ironhawk saw that it was the relative of the flat-nosed man who lingered, but he waved away the man’s advice, and the trader trudged after the others.

  He had not looked close enough, and although the story seemed unarguable, Ironhawk chose to retrace Bright Morning’s route from the privy. He studied everything carefully, but it was all as clear as if painted. She had been taken, probably tied and gagged, and marched directly to the waiting horse. It appeared that a band of riders had been waiting.

  Why? Perhaps if he could discover that answer he would know where to search or at least a direction to begin.

  To the east? The captors had ridden there, but he knew nothing of the east, and once into one of the large villages that everyone spoke about he would probably be completely lost.

  His study of the trail had brought him back to the horse-mounting point. He knew blacksmithing, perhaps he could distinguish something special about the horse and mule shoes that Bright Morning's captors had ridden.

  He studied them closely but discovered no distinguishing details. A mule had a loose shoe, but that was about as distinctive as learning that the animal had been brown. Shoes loosened regularly, and most people hammered them tight again themselves.

  He was about to turn away when his mind tripped on an oddity, and he looked more closely. Bright Morning, still a poor horsewoman, was being taught to ride side-saddle as an English lady, but she had mounted her animal from its right side, and to Ironhawk's knowledge no one provided a side-saddle that could be used from the opposite side. So, not only had she chosen the off-side of the horse, she had apparently ridden astride. The signs in the dirt also suggested that she had mounted without assistance. Had she not been securely tied as everyone had assumed? Ironhawk sought other opinion, but he was alone at t
he scene.

  Within the hour, Ironhawk knew that the village would send forth no serious search parties. The Widow Pratt was prostrate and being tended to by numerous ladies. The men gathered at favored hostelries and muttered among themselves. The sheriff dispatched the traveler to hurry ahead to alert those along the pike, but he did not arm and take up pursuit.

  Clearly, no one knew what to do. There was agreement that the fleeing party was unlikely to continue on the high road, but when they turned off, who could find them?

  Suspicion was voiced that the girl, who was after all raised by Indians, might have chosen to ride away with some rougher crowd. Ironhawk bristled, but no one cared to consider his views.

  The sun was still warming when Ironhawk decided to act on his own. He considered the possibility that Blue Moccasin, said to be powerful in the distant city, might somehow intercede. Yet, how could he, Ironhawk, influence him? How could he quickly contact the wealthy businessman? How . . .?

  The Hawk knew only a single hope, and he chose to act because to do nothing would surely sicken his soul, and he would die pounding pointlessly the hot iron of his forge.

  He took Baumhauer’s horse and rode toward the rise of Kittatinny Mountain. The direction was north when he wished to be galloping south, but beyond the mountain lay the only assistance he could imagine.

  Quehana had always helped. There could be no finer tracker, and perhaps Quehana could work out the trail of the escaping horsemen. Ironhawk supposed that was improbable, but if anyone could, Quehana would know how to persuade the powerful Blue Moccasin to begin a search for Bright Morning.

  That Bright Morning lived, Ironhawk did not doubt, and as long as he could believe that he would search. As he drove the horse onto higher ground the Hawk searched for reasons that could explain Bright Morning’s capture, but none came to his fevered mind.

  Someone had suggested that Bright Morning’s real white parents had come for her, but listeners had scoffed because no one in Carlisle would have resisted parents regaining their own child.

  Sometimes people were carried off, and sometimes those who disappeared went willingly. Sometimes . . . no one knew why, and it appeared to Ironhawk that no one would conduct a serious search.

  Bright Morning was, after all, only an orphan raised among savages who lived within the village while attempting to learn civilized behavior. It was not the same as if a village child had been stolen, and who could really know about . . . Ironhawk had not listened further lest he attack someone.

  Ahead the land rose to become the Blue Mountain, and the horse made heavy work of the climb. William Hawk was not an accomplished rider of horses, but he did his best to judge his animal’s endurance lest it wear itself out and be unable to reach the Little Buffalo.

  At the summit he rested the already weary animal and gazed across the unbroken expanse of wooded valleys. He judged that he had another ten miles, perhaps even more before he reached the lodge of Quehana. The Arrowmaker could be away, or he might find no hope in Ironhawk's plan to enlist the aid of Blue Moccasin, but the youth began his descent with hope still burning.

  Quehana knew the ways of whites. Quehana would know what to do, and Ironhawk felt his confidence rise as the miles wore slowly away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rob was helping with haying when the horn was blown. The high note of the small horn urged him to come home. If there had been danger, the big horn would have sounded, and there would have been ferocious clanging on the iron bar that hung close beside their door.

  Even so, horns were not blown casually, and Rob laid aside his scythe, snatched up his rifle, and with a warning to the others to keep a close eye out he loped toward the distant house.

  His first view into the notch protecting the great home surprised him because Flat was bringing horses from their pasture, and the children were milling around Becky and someone he could not identify.

  When she saw him, Becky fluttered her apron, but then disappeared into the house. Rob opened his stride a little. Something important was clearly underway.

  Only a few rods further Rob recognized Ironhawk. Damn, the Hawk and Bright Morning had probably run away, heading to Lord knows where, and he was supposed to aid them.

  Ironhawk was stripped to the waist, and Rob could see the glint of the iron tomahawk handle at his waist. The youth had apparently cut his cloth pants off above the knees, and that was strange. Closer in, Rob saw that Ironhawk wore moccasins and that his shirt hung from Becky's drying pole. When the Hawk moved, he limped as if stepping on rough stones, and Rob did not like the look of that.

  They met with hands raised in the peace sign, and Ironhawk spoke first. He wasted no words in greeting or formality, and his news tightened the edges of Rob Shatto's mouth.

  "Whites have taken Bright Morning, Quehana. They caught her as the sun rose and have taken horses east along the great road. No one knows who they are, and nothing is being done to find her."

  Rob's guts tightened. The Hawk's dilemma was plain. Beyond the insult of people snatching someone from their very village, the people of Carlisle would feel no special obligation to seek out villains who had made off with one of the Indian-raised children. Rob could imagine the excuses offered, and he could appreciate Ironhawk's desperation. Indeed, the desperation must be complete for him to have headed into the mountains to seek help in exactly the opposite direction.

  Flat was there with the horses, and Rob marveled at the aging squaw's understanding of what he would do and how swiftly he would wish to do it. Becky was preparing his blanket and assembling the few things he would need. Through the open door he saw her unlatch their strong box and removed a handful of coins that she dropped into his hunting pouch. Becky, too, knew him, and among the civilized he would need money to further their search.

  Of course, he would ride with Ironhawk, and he would do what he could, but Rob was unsure exactly what direction their hunt would take. He was, in fact, an unlikely source of assistance. He entered villages and towns with reluctance, and he had no influence that could open doors or gain information. None of that mattered. He would help where he could.

  Ironhawk’s story poured forth even as Rob’s people prepared them both for traveling.

  The Hawk had ridden with care across the mountain, but Fritz Baumhauer’s horse had given out, and its pace had become slower than Ironhawk’s. The animal now recovered in the valley of Jack Elan’s lodge, and Ironhawk had run hard to Quehana’s.

  Ironhawk explained his hope that Quehana could bring the wealthy and influential Blue Moccasin into their search, and Rob marveled at such thinking. Having seen nothing beyond Carlisle, Ironhawk had no real concept of the size of the colony or of those lying beyond the Penns’ holdings. The idea was good, but even James Cummens could not marshal the army of searchers it would require to fan across the province searching for a single young woman.

  Equipping Ironhawk took moments longer. The moccasins the youth wore were from his earlier days, and they had severely pinched his feet. Becky took time to choose a pair of worn but useful moccasins that would fit the Hawk’s battered feet.

  At his wife’s insistence, Rob hauled on his leather pants. He kissed Becky, saluted Flat, and grumbled ritualistically that he was spending his entire life running back and forth between their plantation and Carlisle—which place he never wished to visit anyway. Then, they trotted their horses south.

  When they could, the two rode abreast and information could be exchanged, and at regular intervals, Rob insisted that they dismount and lead their animals, thus conserving strength while still moving ahead.

  They spoke mostly in Delaware, and Rob said. "The horse is an animal for whites, but if there is a road or cleared path, a rider can make better progress and arrive with strength left to fight."

  With an eye on the sun, Ironhawk asked, "Will we still have light, Quehana? There is little enough left to see, but if it rains during the night there will be nothing."

  Rob did not bothe
r to study the sky. His own estimates said that there would be light, but accidents could happen, and he knew the importance of at least seeing the tracks of the horses and Bright Morning’s shoes for himself.

  He did not doubt Ironhawk’s certainty that there would be little to see, but the youth was not an experienced tracker, and perhaps something else could be discovered.

  Rob was particularly intrigued by Ironhawk’s belief that Bright Morning was not bound and had vaulted into the saddle to ride astride. He evaluated the Hawk's own horsemanship, and recognized that the boy had much to learn. The same should have been true of Bright Morning’s riding. There could be mystery there.

  At the mountain’s summit, Rob muttered that he had crossed old Kittatinny so often the last few weeks that he had worn his own track.

  While the horses regained their wind, Quehana remarked on the limits of Blue Moccasin’s help.

  "Blue is a rich man, Ironhawk, but the lands beyond Carlisle are vaster than your mind can imagine. Blue can send forth messages, but for what would people search? White women are everywhere, and Bright Morning will not stand out."

  He shook his head angrily. "Why would she be taken is the question that burns in my mind. Where would she be taken rests solidly upon the reason for her taking. If we could answer either we would likely have the other."

  No suspicions appeared, and they began the long and steep descent of Kittatinny’s southern flank.

  To reach the Widow Pratt’s they passed almost the length of Market Street, and Fritz Baumhauer saw them. He called and came after them, but with an eye on the lowering sun, neither Rob nor Ironhawk slowed.

  Near the widow’s privy they dropped from their horses and, ignoring the good lady’s calling from her porch, they began to study the remaining marks of struggle.

  They were kneeling and looking closely when Baumhauer came steaming in. Rob left their explanations to William and continued his close examination.

  Behind a bush and a large tree a captor had waited. He wore skin leggings or pants. Quehana could see the stitching where he had knelt. The boot marks were those of ordinary cobbler boots. The boots were the German kind that could be slid on either foot. The heels were worn at both rear corners, so the wearer was not particular that they were used on the same foot. That, to Rob, meant a sloppy individual who probably did not care about his personal appearance or even the comfort of his footwear.