Ironhawk (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series Book 6)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Again on the trail, Quehana muttered that if Indians wanted the family’s scalps or their blankets or their kettles they would have them without great effort.

  Whites rarely fought Indians successfully, but contrary to white beliefs, most Indians of most tribes were busy with their lives and did not wish to fight battles with anyone.

  Rob suspected that the same was true for most of the humans on the earth, and that it was the leaders who began the wars the others had to fight.

  There were wagon tracks on the trail, but those who had passed cleared only enough to see themselves through, and the iron shod wheels ate deeply into the soft earth rutting the path and making foot placement a continual problem.

  The day was nearly gone before they found another river watcher. The fisherman had lines well out into the current, and he had been in place throughout the day. No canoes with or without Indians had passed. He was as positive as anyone could be, which should mean that the Shawnee had turned up a creek or had taken to the land.

  It was also possible that the Shawnee had portaged around the fisherman to disguise their passing, but such a huge effort was improbable, and Rob believed the Shawnees did not suspect they were being pursued.

  The fisherman had other interests, and he insisted that Rob Shatto—who everyone on the river knew about—take his own look.

  "What do you make of them tracks, Mister Shatto? I come here near every day and those were made last night, and I'm as sure of that as I am of my own name—which is Jim Spotts, an' I'm pleased to meet you." The man pointed to tracks crossing the mud along the river bank.

  Ironhawk also looked, and he had never seen their like. The prints came from the river, and they had been made by hide moccasins, but there was no shape to them. The imprints were large, deeply driven, and appeared almost round. More like an ox wearing moccasins, the Hawk thought.

  Rob nodded. "I’ve seen these prints before, over along the Tuscarora, but they were not clear like these. I never had a reason to follow them up, and the ones I came across were very old."

  "What do you make of ’em? Don't seem human, do they?" There was fear of the unknown in the fisherman's voice.

  Rob had no doubts. "Oh, they are human all right, because there aren't any two-legged animals that I know of, and none that wear foot coverings—which is what we're seeing here.

  "They're driven deep, so whatever it was that made them weighed a lot more than an ordinary man—which shows it wasn't some kind of a strange bird hopping around.

  "That leaves only a human being, but just what a man this size would look like, I can't imagine. It looks like he had stubbed toes on feet about as wide as they are long, and he didn't have a very long stride. In fact, it sort of looks like he had extra short legs."

  Rob squatted to look more closely. "Now here's a really strange one." He pointed between tracks. "Right there are knuckle marks, as if the man reached down and pressed his clenched fist against the ground. Now why would he do that?" No one had an answer.

  Rob followed the tracks with his eyes until they were lost in the woods. "Wish we could work out this trail, because it is mighty curious, but we are on a track of our own, and there is no time."

  Rob studied the fisherman, and found him normal looking enough. "Have you got an improvement near here, Jim Spotts?"

  "Sure do. I built my cabin up on higher ground just upstream a whit. A man'd be foolish to crowd this river the way some do 'cause you can see where the water's come up real high in seasons past, and all of this was flooded out." Spotts' arm waved across the entire area.

  Rob agreed, but his interest was not on flooding. "We would like to leave our horse with you, Jim. Can’t tell for how long, but I wouldn't expect for more than a week. If you can stake him out so he can feed and get him to water as often as needed, we’d be in your debt."

  "I’ll do that for you, Mister Shatto, an’ consider it a privilege. We’ve all heard how you cleaned out them Injuns what came into your place back in the last fighting, an’ its comfortin’ to know that you’re around."

  Ironhawk handed Spotts the reins, and they shouldered their blankets. Jim Spotts took Baumhauer’s mount away, and Rob turned to his companion.

  "So, which side of the river, Ironhawk?"

  The youth pondered, searching his boyish memories. Only a little way further had stood his father’s lodge, and from it he had journeyed to visit Quehana. There also The Warrior had rested.

  "The lodge of Tree Shadow stood on this side, Quehana. My father chose this bank because most travelers used this side, and he enjoyed lodge visitors."

  Ironhawk tied his opinion to the memories.

  "If the Shawnee wished to remain undiscovered they would hide their canoes on the other side. There are creeks, and they might have paddled away from the river before leaving the water." He finished lamely. "Of course, there are creeks on this side, and they could have done the same over here."

  Rob led the way across the same rock ledge the strange footprints had used, and except for a single deeper channel the crossing was simple.

  Leading the scouting, Rob moved swiftly downstream. His eyes searched for scrape marks certain to be left by pulling canoes from the water, but the hours passed without discovery.

  A small stream fed from the west, but a short scout led them to water too shallow for canoes. Rob searched a bit deeper in case the Shawnee had carried their canoes into hiding further along, but the water became a swamp, and there was nothing.

  A spattering of rain touched them, and Rob shook his head in annoyance. "I would like to find the canoes before rain wipes away marks, Hawk. If it rains upriver, the water could rise as well." He shrugged, as they could do nothing, but he moved more quickly.

  — — —

  Before the sun was high, Yellow Jacket had ordered a rest where rocks near midstream allowed the canoes to be pulled from the current. His men grumbled constantly at his savage pace, and it was not inconceivable that more than one would simply give it up and disappear into the forest.

  Yellow Jacket did not want that to happen until he had finished with the Sheenes. Five against three was strong, and if there were fewer, he himself might have to be in the thick of it.

  A broad stream entered the river from the west, but a mud bar across the entrance was exposed by the low water, and the canoes would leave drag marks that anyone could see, and their footprints would mark their numbers.

  Once beyond the bar, the creek narrowed and deepened. It could be a good place to wait because the Sheenes’ meeting place was within reach. Instead of striking deeper into the mountains, they could rest nearby and perhaps scout before entering the white encampment.

  There was a way to leave no traces, and to end the efforts of driving the canoes upstream his men would approve of a change in plans.

  At Yellow Jacket’s direction, they moved above the creek mouth to where a vertical bank touched the flowing water. Standing on a flat stone just beneath the surface, they hoisted three of their number onto the higher ground followed by the woman who was quickly secured to a tree.

  Yellow Jacket and one companion raised a canoe until those above could grip the bow. Together, they heaved the craft onto the high ground without touching the bank in any way. The second canoe followed before Yellow Jacket allowed his companion to climb onto his shoulders to be hoisted from sight. Ready hands then grasped his, and he flew upward and over the bank.

  There was much laughter and better-natured complaint about the excess caution of Yellow Jacket, and the Shawnee leader decided it was time that he explained his more secret plans to his band.

  They squatted just within the forest, and Yellow Jacket explained how at his signal they would snatch their hatchets and kill the three whites. They would then divide the weapons, the trade goods, and the animals, and each would go his own way.

  The plan was daring, but even the slowest could see that it would be difficult to fail, and the rewards would be great.

  Whites
were arrogant in their foolish belief that they were chiefs of the forests. The whites were not often killed because they were so many, and the tribes had suffered defeat because of white numbers, but to kill three and hide their bodies would be simple and rewarding. All agreed that they would then march swiftly to the Ohio country and never return to this land of many white skins.

  Yellow Jacket allowed them to wrangle their expectation into decisions while he watched the river's flow.

  One asked, "And what of the woman, Yellow Jacket?"

  "I will kill her." He made the woman his problem and eased any doubts the others might harbor.

  Still, something not right nagged at the spirit of Yellow Jacket He sought for the doubt but could not place it. That he was well within the lands of Quehana was disturbing, but strange would be the circumstances that would place the killer in this part of the forest.

  Yellow Jacket reviewed all of the precautions he had taken, and it could not be that he was followed. Still . . . he would increase his caution because his senses believed that someone or something was out there.

  The Sheenes? Perhaps they were his hidden fear. He snorted at the possibility. Those whites would live only a few days longer, and then he would be away.

  Yellow Jacket studied the woman fastened by a long hide strip from her waist to the tree. Handsome was the maiden, but she too was white. Yellow Jacket turned away.

  The canoes were placed into the stream many steps up the flow, and the Shawnee pushed and paddled away from the river leaving no trace of their passage.

  When the creek became too shallow, Yellow Jacket ordered the canoes carried from the water and hidden in heavy brush on the south bank.

  All six then reentered the water and returned downstream to a rock ledge that led into deep forest on the north bank. Anyone finding the canoes would assume that whoever had hidden them went upstream, and they would search in the wrong direction and on the wrong side of the creek.

  The companions of Yellow Jacket admired their leader’s cleverness.

  A half mile from the stream, Yellow Jacket selected a camp that was deep within tall oaks where the small smoke of a cooking fire would be lost as it rose.

  The band took their ease with relish because their leader assured them that within two suns they might find the Sheenes at their place and finish their work. Shortly before dark, rain began. Yellow Jacket was pleased because again all tracks would be wiped away.

  — — —

  Quehana had scouted far back down the Juniata but had found nothing. Discouragement settled on the soul of Ironhawk, and he sought to keep his mind from what might be happening to Bright Morning.

  Impatience rode the Hawk, but he could not aid their search. Quehana clung to the water's edge, and he studied the entrance to every rivulet; most were too shallow for use, and there was nothing.

  Rob said, "They are close, Ironhawk, I can feel them."

  Ironhawk was not encouraged. "They must have used the other side of the river, Quehana, we are far downstream."

  Quehana's grunt was noncommittal, and without announcement, he turned again upstream.

  A half mile above, they had passed a strong stream whose wide mouth was blocked by a mud bar that the low water exposed. The bar had been without marks of passage, and they had moved on. Now Quehana returned to stand in the river and study it.

  "If I were the Shawnee, I would go there. The stream is long, and canoes could go far."

  Ironhawk curbed his impatience. It was clear that the Shawnee had not used the stream, and he wished to move on. Again a gust of rain announced the coming of more, and the short blast seemed to urge Quehana into action.

  He plunged onto dry land and stood on the bank allowing the water to drain from his moccasins. He had chosen to leave the river just above a tall mud cliff that fell directly into the Juniata, and Ironhawk was too wearied to follow him. Certainly, they would soon abandon this search and cross the river to begin again at first light.

  Instead, Quehana climbed around the wall of mud until he reached the top. Then he worked back until he stood on top of the small cliff apparently studying the ground beneath him.

  After a moment, the Arrowmaker stepped to the cliff edge and looked into the water. Only then did Ironhawk see the cold smile tugging at Quehana’s lips, and the Hawk’s heart leaped, for he recognized the look of discovery.

  Without hesitation, the Hawk plowed for shore. He scrambled to the cliff top and examined what Quehana had found.

  There were moccasin tracks—many of them—and within the woods, the wearers had crouched in council. After a moment, Ironhawk recognized the limper’s turned-out left foot, and the prints of a small woman’s foot were beneath a tree where an encircling rope had rasped away bark.

  There, only hours before, Bright Morning had been tied, and Ironhawk found his eyes blurring.

  Within the forest, two canoes had been grounded, but they were now gone, and Quehana was already searching the creek bank for their marks. When he found them, the Hawk hurried to catch up.

  No path edged the creek, but Quehana began a swift trot pushing brush aside and ignoring the sting of thorns and nettles. He watched the water as well as both banks, and only once did he pause to explain to a puffing Ironhawk.

  "The limper is extremely clever or he is afraid. He cannot know that he is being followed, but he takes no risks and spares no caution. He is a worthy enemy, and I may peg his scalp above my door." Despite the lightness of the words, Quehana’s tones were grim.

  "If we do not find the canoes when the water becomes shallow, we will return down the other bank where we may see things differently. We know that he is here, so we will hunt until we find him."

  Ironhawk kept up, but it was not easy. Quehana seemed to move effortlessly through brush that caught and held him like clawed fingers. He, who was smaller, should have slipped through, but his thighs were ripped, his knees were bloody, and his breathing wheezed. The Arrowmaker continued without pause until the water fell low.

  Ironhawk blessed the end of the plunge through the brush. Far better was the forest where the undergrowth was sparse. He dragged his bow free of a final clutch of thorn, and Quehana was off in his steady lope back down the far side of the now tiny rivulet, back the way they had come.

  Ironhawk almost sobbed, but he leaned into his own run, seeing nothing but Quehana’s muscled body as it flowed ahead, struggling only to keep the Arrowmaker in sight lest he fall too far behind and be abandoned.

  Quehana’s halt was so sudden that Ironhawk actually ran into him. A finger pointed, and through his sweat and exhaustion, Ironhawk saw the print of many moccasins.

  Crouching, Quehana showed with his fingers how the Shawnee had come into the deeper timber and then departed leaving wider spaced and perhaps shallower prints.

  The light was failing, and for the first time Ironhawk noted that a small drizzle had begun. Quehana motioned them ahead, and the Hawk followed his guide deeper into the forest.

  The canoes were not hard to find, but they would not have been seen unless expected. Rob directed, and they raised both canoes off the ground and onto bent over saplings. This night, they would sleep beneath the protection of the inverted bark canoes, as had the limper a night before—or had it been two nights? Ironhawk was too tired to remember.

  Quehana spoke only shortly before he ordered the youth to eat some of his pemmican and prepare to sleep.

  "The Great Spirit has been with us, Ironhawk, or we would not have worked out this trail. Clever is the limper."

  They listened for a moment to the spatter of rain that was steadily increasing.

  Rob said, "Tomorrow, there will be no tracks to follow. Tonight as we rest, we must enter the mind of the limper, and we must understand what he might do. If we are too clever, we will fool ourselves. If we are too dull, the limper will make us seem foolish."

  Rob mused aloud. "The limper has come to this place for a purpose. We can assume that it is near here that he wi
ll deliver Bright Morning to the whites who have arranged all of this."

  Rob paused. "Yet, whites do not come along this creek, nor are there cabins nearby."

  He speculated again. "Perhaps that is why this place has been chosen."

  He sighed heavily. "Do not despair, Ironhawk. We have done better than we might have, and we are closer to them tonight than last night. They are now out of their canoes, and if they move tomorrow they will leave tracks."

  He examined the youth with a critical eye before granting approval. "You have held up well, Ironhawk, and from this day you will grow stronger. Few are those who would still be at my side. Your father, Tree Shadow, is pleased as he watches among the honored ones."

  Ironhawk supposed Quehana said more, but his eyes were too heavy, and he slept.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ironhawk woke before dawn shivering in his single blanket and listening to steady rain on his canoe shelter.

  Quehana too woke and swore softly before scratching at the earth to divert surface water that was puddling beside him.

  The Hawk said, "It will be a rainy day, Quehana."

  "Yes, and we will be fortunate if it clears before the sun drops."

  "Will we hunt today?" Ironhawk feared the answer.

  Quehana mulled over his answer. "I figure the Shawnee believe that they are safely away. If I am right, they will not travel in the rain.

  "Unless they found shelter that I do not know about, they will be more miserable than we are. My guess is that they are backed under hemlocks, trying to keep warm, and moving as little as possible.

  "If the drizzle lets up, they will try to raise a fire. If they manage that, they will be using damp wood, and there will be heavy smoke. We might smell it.

  "What we will do is rest here until the rain stops. Then we will work this side of the stream way on up ahead and back down in case they were tricky and edged toward the river. We will stay well downwind from where I figure they might camp. We will keep our noses working, and maybe we will again be lucky."