The Warrior (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  They rode far, but at times dreams rose again to haunt the Hawk's nights. Once he saw buzzards feasting on his body and on a worse night he stood aside as his brother carried his dead weight up a steep hill.

  The dream disturbed The Warrior and reminded him of his almost forgotten mission. The freshening prompted new reasonings and one became bright with logic. He told it to The Hawk.

  "Every people believes in a Great Spirit, do they not, my brother?"

  "It would seem so, though they use many names and some see spirits in all things."

  "Even the whites and the people of your land know of him." It was as much question as statement and the Hawk answered.

  "True, oh Warrior, although he is seen through different eyes. For some he is a snake, for others an elephant."

  The Warrior's thoughts did not linger. "If The Great Spirit is known in all places by all people, could it not mean that he is then in all places at all times, although he does not make himself known?"

  The Hawk studied a while. "To believe that The Sky Father could be in all places at once is no stranger than to think he darts from place to place attempting to see all."

  "It is said that he waits at the end of the long trail to his hunting ground. If he is there, he could not be in other places, for many take that trail each sun, unless. . ." The Warrior's voice grew certain, ". . . he can truly be all places as he wishes."

  They rode in silence until the Hawk added, "I do not see how that could be, but for one that can grow the grass or raise the wind it may be a small thing."

  The Warrior spoke no more, for his mind was filling with it. Perhaps, he could believe, this was the great discovery for which he had left his home. He allowed the thoughts to grow, savoring a rich certainty that a mighty secret had come to him.

  Blackhawk interrupted his thoughts. "Do you believe that at death one stands at the foot of the great path to The Sky Father's land, my brother? Do you truly believe it?"

  He believed it, and The Warrior spoke it clearly.

  "It is so, oh Hawk. I know it as I know myself. Once I saw Friend Seeker camped upon the great path with Three Feathers his teacher, but that was long ago when I also heard the voice of The Great Spirit."

  Without hesitation the Hawk said, "Perhaps The Great Spirit decided that you now know the ways and need no more voices. You have lived through battles and have been untouched by sickness. You have seen great things, and have served your people. To your brother, it seems that The Sky Father still guides you."

  The words rolled in the mind of The Warrior, for they rang with truth. Perhaps this was a day for seeing with new eyes. Perhaps this too was guidance by the hand of The Manitou.

  The Hawk continued his own thoughts and they disturbed The Warrior.

  "Were others on The Sky Father's path when you saw it, oh Warrior? As often as it is taken, it must be deeply worn."

  "No, it was a wide and rising path within an endless forest, but no others were near. There must be many paths that at the end become one, for the trail used by the Sioux would not have woods and perhaps the Sioux ride horses on their trail."

  "What then will mine be, oh Warrior? Will I crouch before a dung fire with my lion spear ready, or will I ride a pony of many colors and carry a bow?" He held his powerful bow upward as though seeing it for the first time.

  "Perhaps your trail will be the one you choose, oh Hawk." Finding his friend's thoughts too heavy, The Warrior tried to lighten them. "We will wait for each other, so our trail will be one. Perhaps we will ride lions on our journey."

  The Hawk's lips quirked but his tones were still grim. "No lions, oh Warrior, but it will be good to stride that trail with a brother."

  His added thought troubled them both.

  "I will wait at its beginning until you come."

  ++++

  Chapter 22: Age 40

  Their trail was an old one worn deep by travois poles and hooves. The Hawk rode before, his broad back slouched, singing softly one of the rhythmic chants of his people. The Warrior rode alongside when the trail widened but dropped behind as it steepened and became a narrow brow with a vertical drop to the right and rounded, reddish cliffs rising equally straight to the left. No earth lay on the stone ledge, but lowering their heads to study their footing the horses picked their way carefully upward.

  The trail rose from a cooler canyon and hot sun beat against the cliff faces, rebounding to strike the riders a second time. It was heat without moisture that seemed to blast away even the hint of perspiration. The Hawk stretched powerfully and spat into the canyon depth.

  "Now this, oh Warrior, is as I remember my home, although there the sun would be hotter and the land flatter.

  I would have no horse to ride, but my spear would be long and I would be on a lion's track." He chuckled in his deep throated manner that The Warrior envied. "The lion of which I speak is not the timid and thick tailed thing of these mountains. My lion's roar would make all but the great bear tremble.'

  Relaxed in the heat and amused by his friend's story, The Warrior felt his own smile crease his features and it pleased him.

  The coiled snake rattled its warning from a ledge almost in the ear of the Hawk's horse causing it to sheer wildly. Half dozing and as startled as the horse, The Hawk belatedly tightened rein and fought to dampen the animal's rearing and wild scrabbling. Slipping and desperate, the horse sought new footing. Its frightened neighing panicked The Warrior's mount into similar frantic lungings, turning the narrow ledge into a tangle of struggling hooves. On poor footing, the Hawk's mount lost balance and a forefoot slid under. With a rib cracking thump the horse landed on its side. The Hawk's leg pinned beneath. The slope of the ledge turned it onto its back and with all feet slashing the air the animal completed its roll, burying the Blackhawk beneath its writhing body. With an almost human scream of fear it toppled over the edge and into the abyss.

  His own mount beyond control, The Warrior slid to the ground and clear of flailing hooves. He saw the horse roll across the body of the Hawk and strove mightily to reach them, but in an instant, both were gone, the animal's terrorized scream cut short by a bone crunching halt far below.

  Before The Warrior the trail lay bare. Disbelieving, he rushed to the edge knowing no ledge existed that might have saved his friend. Grasping a small juniper he leaned far out, and for a strained instant saw only the burning hot stone, but there, only a little beneath him, a black hand gripped a tiny fault in the rocks, and even as he saw, the powerful fingers slipped on the poor handhold.

  Instinctively, The Warrior flung himself face down and hooking a knee around the tiny juniper, slid full length down the cliff face. Stretched to his utmost, his fingers closed in an iron grip around the Hawk's thick wrist an instant before the handhold crumbled and Blackhawk's full weight dangled from The Warrior's single hand.

  Pressed to the rocks, The Warrior could not see his friend but his rasping breath was loud in his ear.

  "Climb, oh Hawk, my grip is strong." The Warrior spoke between gritted teeth.

  Blackhawk's breath sawed twice before he could answer, "The other arm is dead, my brother. This one must do."

  Within The Warrior's fingers The Hawk's tendons hardened, and twisted with effort the face of Blackhawk slowly appeared. Hugely the bicep of The Hawk bulged as he forced his chin even with The Warrior's grip. The feat was mighty but truly enough, the Hawk's other arm hung limp and useless.

  His body ground into the heated rocks, The Warrior sucked air and forced power into his own arm. Drawing with ultimate effort, he raised The Hawk until his grip reached his own shoulder. Shuddering with strain they stared eye to eye.

  Instantly, The Warrior rammed his other fist through The Hawk's crotch, allowing a stronger hold and easing the impossible tensions on their lifting arms. Still eye to eye they rested for a short moment and then, without signal The Warrior released his death grip on the black wrist and The Hawk's arm darted for a new and higher hold.

  It touched sho
rtly along The Warrior's leg and then found a rock purchase. Relief on The Warrior's supporting leg was immediate and a neglected fear that the juniper would loosen died away. As the Hawk again inched himself upward, The Warrior's hand reached a moccasined foot and assisted the scramble.

  Quickly then, Blackhawk climbed The Warrior's body and, grunting with both effort and pain, rolled to safety on the ledge.

  Hanging against the cliff face, The Warrior turned to his own predicament, but before he could plan, a grip as strong as his own closed about his free ankle and he was drawn powerfully upward and onto the ledge's harsh security.

  They lay gasping, bodies shaken by effort, unwilling for the moment to do more than appreciate their survival.

  His voice coarse with strain and continuing pain, The Hawk spoke first. "If you had been swifter, oh Warrior, the horse too might have been saved."

  The vision of The Hawk clutching the horse's barrel as he hung by one hand forced a smile, and gathering himself The Warrior sat erect.

  Blackhawk was thoroughly battered. Ripped and torn he bled from abrasions. More serious, his arm hung unnaturally twisted at the shoulder. With the memory of the horse rolling completely over him, The Warrior worried that the Hawk's body was broken, but, despite the wounds, he breathed strongly and his upward climb indicated that everything important still functioned.

  Reaching across, the Hawk gingerly fingered his injured shoulder. Their grunts of understanding came together and the Hawk groaned in anticipation of what had to be done.

  "You have seen this before, oh Warrior?" At his headshake, Blackhawk continued, "Once I saw a white doctor treat such an injury. Do you know the way?"

  The Warrior did not.

  "The arm has moved from its socket and it must be returned." The Hawk grimaced and used his good arm to extend the injured. "You, my brother, must place a foot here," he indicated below his armpit, "and the other along my neck."

  Quickly The Warrior positioned himself, and the Hawk continued. "As I remember, the arm must be pulled strongly, and carefully twisted until the bone of the arm again fits the shoulder." He paused, his great yellow eyes resting mournfully on The Warrior. "Unfortunately, I cannot remember which way the arm is to be twisted, so if it does not fit one way, try the other. But, oh Warrior," and his eyes became a bit desperate, "do not be weak or overly careful. I recall much wailing and teeth gnashing and the Hawk does not wish his brother to hear such sounds."

  Together they gritted their teeth and The Warrior closed both hands around the Hawk's wrist. Gently he straightened The Hawk's arm and even that movement caused breath to hiss. He studied the shoulder's position. Judging which way to roll the arm and felt an involuntary but powerful resistance by Blackhawk's muscles.

  When he pulled, he put his legs and back into it, and he could feel the Hawk's muscles and fibers reluctantly surrender. Blackhawk's arm seemed to lengthen under the pull and a groan of vast depth escaped the clenched jaws. The Warrior rotated the arm and sweat leapt on the Hawk's rigid body.

  Gently but remorselessly, The Warrior increased both pull and twist and, with an audible "pop", something gave. The Warrior could feel it in his hands and the Hawk's body jerked in anguish. Immediately, The Warrior released the arm and Blackhawk seized his damaged shoulder with his good hand and rocked the pain away as his eyes teared copiously.

  But the arm looked better. The Hawk moved it tentatively and then more fully. His face twisted with the pain of it, but the arm moved and his nod of approval thrilled The Warrior as greatly as anything he could remember.

  While the Hawk rested. The Warrior tracked his horse. The tracks showed clearly where the tangle had occurred, and more faintly, new marks betrayed the surviving mount's surge on up the ledge and onto flatter ground. The tracking remained easy and the animal stood calmly to The Warrior's approach.

  Retreating back down the ledge, they made camp along a small run in which The Hawk gratefully soaked his swollen shoulder. The Warrior made his way to the dead horse to recover what he could. A tomahawk had fallen as he had hung from the juniper and he recovered it first. The Hawk's bow was smashed and only his arrowpoints were worth saving.

  From the horse he cut both hide and meat. The raw hide he placed in a water filled depression and held it down with a stone. Later he would scrape it clean and pack it in wet ashes. So cured, the hide could be cut into useful pieces that would dry rock hard and would never spoil. He sliced the meat into thin strips and hung them in the sun to dry. They would remain camped until Blackhawk's arm recovered, and there were important tasks to be undertaken.

  Their camp lay within the gorge that had killed the horse. During the day the sun moved across the bottom allowing them to choose sun or shade. In late afternoon the camp became too hot, but they found a low overhang where the rock remained cool and there they waited for the night shadows that would again cool the canyon.

  For three days, The Hawk suffered silently. His black skin showed few of the bruises but the horse's weight had nearly crushed him and each muscle was boil sore. His skin too had torn and in many places had been scraped away by the rock surface. Those wounds wept and scabbed, giving him a diseased appearance. Squaws would have mixed soothing ointments, but without that knowledge, the Hawk could only wait for healing.

  Moving the shoulder was painful, but its importance demanded attention. For two nights the Hawk held his arm close across his body and regularly soaked his shoulder's heat in stream water. Thereafter he exercised it, at first gingerly, then with increasing vigor. He complained that it would probably never again be strong, but the arm improved so rapidly that both believed a moon's turning would find the injury forgotten.

  While the Hawk dozed or groused over his infirmities, The Warrior improved their situation. Searching far up their canyon he found a downed juniper of straight grain that had seasoned in a smooth curve. He cut it to length and brought the staff to their camp for further work. A tomahawk rough-shaped the new bow. Long and careful rubbing on a boulder smoothed a suitable taper.

  It was good to gently badger the Hawk about making a bow with a child's pull to fit his puny condition, or to drive him forth to collect the feathers his new arrows would need. The Hawk had been only an instant from death, and the closeness of it allowed him to better savor life. The Warrior also took increased pleasure in his friend's presence and thanked The Great Spirit for their good fortune.

  He used a soaked and softened sleeve of horsehide to provide a grip and to strengthen the new bow's center. Laced tightly, the wet hide shrank in the sun and hardened to become almost one with the wood. Drawn to its fullest, the bow tugged at shoulder muscles and pained the fingers clutching the string. How the juniper would stand the stress was unsure, but it seemed to spring to its original shape without taking a weaker set. The Warrior presented the bow to The Blackhawk, who began decorating its shaft with designs of great meaning.

  Most of the horsehide became moccasins, double-soled for long travel, and in this task the Hawk was able to assist. Arrows too were made and rubbed straight on stone. Boiled tree pitch secured feathers. Hide thongs, cured-in-place, fastened the arrowpoints.

  For seven suns they rested near the water. Although tender, the Hawk's shoulder moved easily and his wounds were peeling their scabs. Only a vertical gash along The Warrior's body appeared raw, but it too had begun healing. The Warrior claimed Hawk had caused the wound by unfeelingly dragging him by a foot. The Hawk claimed the lengthy scar attractive, and that it nicely balanced others on The Warrior's body.

  Lack of feed for their remaining horse forced them to move on and encouraged spirited discussion as to who would ride the animal. As a true chief (and injured party) the Hawk claimed riding privilege. The Warrior reminded his friend of three things. First, the horse was his, not the Hawk's. Second, he had never heard of a tribe that sold its chieftains, and finally, long walking would help the Hawk regain his strength after so carelessly losing his own mount. In the end they took turns and travers
ed the ledge without incident to resume their journey to the mountains' eastern edge.

  ++++

  Chapter 23: Age 41

  Where the mountains ended and the plains began their countless rolls to the great river, ancient gods had wrenched the earth so that shafts of giant stone plates reared from the red soil creating a confusion of colors and shadows. It was a place sacred to the Utes as well as to horse mounted buffalo tribes. Blackhawk had heard of its silent majesty, but to The Warrior, the weathered slabs and twisted hollows appeared wondrous, and the presence of The Great Spirit seemed closer.

  They camped beneath a slant of reddish stone where a spring run still trickled. Old fires charred the site but none were recent. High cliffs provided shade and grasses grew thickly. Their arrival spooked deer, and needing meat, they watched the deer's route for later hunting.

  At the top of an earthen spire that allowed long viewing, The Warrior watched the horse rolling its pleasure in the lush meadow below.

  "This is a good camp, oh Hawk, and from here we can find another horse."

  The Hawk was unusually silent, and The Warrior studied him a moment before continuing.

  "When our horse is rested we can find the Sioux or even the Crows before we cross the buffalo's land." Hawk remained impassive, so The Warrior squatted beside him and waited.

  When he spoke, Blackhawk's voice was unexpectedly somber. "You are right, my brother. This is a good camp. It is a camp of the gods and has all that is needed, but it is not good for the Blackhawk."

  Not understanding, The Warrior waited quietly.

  "This is the place of my dreams, oh Warrior. In this place I saw my death." His head turned slowly, scanning the breathless mountains through which they had come and lingering on the shimmer of the dry plains before them.

  "In a dream I fought a noble battle in which there was much honor, but I then saw my bones buried, perhaps where we now rest."