"Croghan bought a farm in the New York colony."
"Croghan, a farmer?"
"I doubt he follows a plow, Quehana, but his roaming and trading is behind him. Croghan is-"
Rob interrupted. "Tired runner coming, Blue. Heading for us."
Blue Moccasin turned his fish and rose with Quehana to meet the messenger.
The runner was only a boy. Exhaustion dragged his limbs and sagged his features. In times almost forgotten Blue Moccasin had run to similar extremes. Those had been important messages. Blue's interest quickened.
Courteously, the runner halted at the camp edge. He raised his forked stick, a tiny wand that would not inhibit running. His eyes fastened on Quehana, so Rob quickly motioned him forward. They sat because they feared the messenger might collapse at any instant. The boy's legs quivered. He had run himself out, and Rob's glance showed Blue Moccasin just as concerned.
The message came in spurts, lengthening as lungs regained ability. Grata, of the Seneca, was the sender. He had asked that the message be delivered on the third day, but the runner had found Quehana in a single sun's turning.
It was a remarkable run, and the carrier could be justly proud.
"The warrior Quinaday, whom Grata the Smoke Carrier knows to be mad," the messenger touched his temple to add emphasis, "leads a war party of four to the Little Buffalo Creek beyond the Juniata. There, Quinaday will kill all that live and destroy all that stands."
Quehana's features had frozen. Blue Moccasin, too, appeared hardened by the message. Neither spoke, allowing words to be completed.
"Grata sends this message that Quehana may punish Quinaday for his deeds before the mad one disappears into the forest."
The message was given, and the three sat silently for a long moment. Then Rob cursed, "A fat man's father!"
Blue asked, "Did Quinaday march as you left the village of Newtown, oh runner?"
"Quinaday marched during the dark, before my message was given, honored Blue Moccasin."
Rob said in English. "He's got a day and two nights lead on me, Blue."
Their minds calculated the distances and available paths.
Blue judged, "Quinaday may already be south of Esther's Town."
"Then I will have to hurry."
Blue turned to the messenger. "Four ran with Quinaday?"
"Four seasoned warriors, oh Quehana."
"How can I know Quinaday?"
The runner frowned, searching for distinguishing marks. Then his brow cleared. "Quinaday's roach is strange, Quehana. It stands ear to ear, across his head."
"That should be easy." Rob had never seen such hair.
Rob stood, drawing the exhausted youth erect with him. Cold as frozen iron his eyes bored to the core of the youthful messenger. When he spoke, his voice burned with emotion.
"Mighty has been the run of this youth. Powerful has been the message, and clear the words of this runner."
Sensing Rob's wish, Blue Moccasin stood beside him. They had done it before. Rob had rewarded a young Shawnee naming him Wild Goose, and together they had renamed Ironhawk of the Delaware. Naming could be powerful, and it could change lives. Blue added his own solemnity to the rock-hard words of Quehana.
"To the youth, Quehana, the Arrowmaker, grants a name, a name honored by powerful tribes whose land lies even beyond the Mohawk. Among those tribes only one has ever borne the honored name. Now another has earned it.
"Here stood a youth whose name Quehana has not heard.
"Here now stands Deerfoot, runner of the Iroquois, message carrier for all nations. Deerfoot, whose quickness truly rivals his cousin the deer. Deerfoot will rank first among those who now run. Proudly, Deerfoot will wear his name and proudly he will announce it to all he encounters."
As Rob's hand gripped Deerfoot's trembly shoulder, Blue Moccasin grasped the other and added, "Upon his chest, Deerfoot will wear in vermilion the footprints of the deer." Blue's fingers touched here and there. "In these places the mark of Deerfoot will be painted."
The voice of Blue Moccasin changed and became the hair-raising rumble of The Warrior's terrible voice. "The spirit of The Warrior recognizes Deerfoot and will watch proudly his nephew's journey through all of his days."
Deerfoot was staggered by the honors heaped upon him. Across his shoulder lay Quehana's own blanket, a gift to be treasured until only its threads were stored in medicine pouches.
The runner's clumsied legs rushed him to the village with coins from Quehana's pouch to find a strong horse for Quehana to ride south.
Of course, Quehana would pursue Quinaday. He could not catch the war party, but he would be close behind. Before Quinaday had finished, Quehana might be upon him. Deerfoot did not doubt the outcome.
Rob said, "Old Smoke Carrier wouldn't have figured this out."
"Not likely, Quehana. Grata is clever enough, but he would rather have you at council. Grata is a talker. Driving you from the council smells of white cunning."
"Butler?"
"Probably."
"Damn, I'll never catch that war party, Blue. My family will never know what hit them."
"There are chances, Rob. You will move faster. He may waste a day scouting. Flat could smell something in the wind. You told them to lock up at night, and Quinaday might try then."
"All thin chances, Blue."
Rob carried only bare essentials. His pouch held pemmican and spare moccasins. He wore only breechclout and hunting shirt. Pouch, horns, knife, and tomahawk girded his hips with the two- barreled pistol against his spine. His long rifle filled a hand.
Deerfoot came with a horse, and Rob rolled astride.
Blue said, "Ride him hard, then run. You can get another mount at Tioga and another from Esther."
"That German, Hornsock, at Shickelamy's old town had a horse. I'll take it, too."
"You've got a chance, Rob."
Quehana kicked his mount into motion and hammered his rifle along a flank until the horse ran. They heard his angry urging through the trees, and Quehana was gone.
Blue Moccasin waved the runner, Deerfoot, to Rob's seat at the fire. The fish was overcooked, but if he could stay awake, the boy would undoubtedly devour it all.
Blue would feed him and let him rest. Then Blue would ask more about what went on in Newtown. If John Butler were there, suspicions would be confirmed.
The message had removed the influence of Quehana from councils. It could be that Quinaday had not really been sent to the Little Buffalo, but Butler was brutally efficient and as willingly savage as the Indians he sought to lead.
While the boy ate, Blue thought about Butler and considered the probability that the English colonel also had no wish for the words of Blue Moccasin to be heard.
Blue resolved to remain near the village and in company until the Shequaga council had finished.
13 Amos Brink
Brink reached Shequaga only a day before the council. The normally placid village teemed with persons of importance. Groups formed to discuss or gossip, only to dissolve and re-form with new participants. Important figures from all of the Iroquois nations were to be seen. Madam Esther's entourage was larger than her position warranted, while the chieftain, Gu-Cinge, stalked about unaccompanied and intense in his arguments.
The important personages bothered Amos Brink. From among them he must extract Blue Moccasin, kill him and, of course, manage an escape. The Iroquois would not tolerate a white, no matter who had sent him, murdering beneath their very noses.
In mid-afternoon, the Onondaga, Blue Throat, argued heatedly with Red Jacket of the Oneida, and a slighter figure joined them. The third speaker bore the forked stick of a message carrier and wore blue moccasins. Brink figured he had his man. The youthful messenger, remembered from Newtown, stood respectfully behind Blue Moccasin gripping his own forked stick, and Brink became more certain. Still, he dispatched his young and completely awed companion to ask others. It would not do to kill the wrong Indian.
As a student, Deerfo
ot sat cross-legged and straight-backed before the honored Blue Moccasin-who leaned comfortably against the blanket covered bole of an immense sycamore. Thigh thick roots twisted above ground and formed armrests, over which Blue Moccasin draped his limbs.
Blue's arrangement was throne-like, and with fire warmth softening an evening chill, Blue doubted his Philadelphia rooms were more comfortable.
It was good to speak the old stories to a mind as hungry as Deerfoot's. For four nights, since Quehana's departure, Blue had taught the young runner through stories of messages carried. Deerfoot lacked the ability to imitate the voices of senders, but he could mimic some simpler body and hand motions. Deerfoot could learn, and his teacher had the time and interest to help.
Blue Moccasin explained the need to add excitement to messages and showed how it could be done by mimicking gestures, by leaning closer, or by stronger tones. Mystery called for bent knees and crouching figure. Dignity demanded erect posture, chin high, fists laid against the chest with elbows held from sides. A snake was depicted by fingers extended, a bendy wrist, and sinuous arm movements. Anger tightened everything. Sinew should strain, fists become stone-knuckled, even toes should grip the earth in tension.
On words, however, hung the successes. Birds, bees, flowers and fawns spoke of tenderness and framed messages of love and caring. Iron, lances, rage, hatred, clouds, and vultures were words of war. Honor, coup, pride and victory were its inspirers.
By choosing his words, the carrier could affect his impact. Birth of a child could "add another warrior," or it could "again burden parents." Great was the influence of the messenger, if he honed his skills and used them wisely.
Any fool, Blue Moccasin chided, could run through a forest carrying a forked stick and babbling what he had been told. The true carrier, Blue Moccasin taught, might change destinies. He could cause smiles or frowns, almost at will. He could play notes on souls as he might on a flute, twitching and shifting the emotions of even the greatest leaders of the Iroquois confederacy.
Deerfoot lost himself within the flow of thoughts and words with an empathy formerly undreamed. Worlds of possibilities never suspected opened like flowers before suns offering countless paths for exploration and discovery. Time flowed unnoticed, and even after his teacher silenced, the mind of Deerfoot floated within the rich currents of Blue Moccasin's depictions.
Blue enjoyed the relaxation of his fire. The days were full, with argument and persuasion forced upon minds often dulled by the thump of war drumming. Others tenuously agreed, only to shift sides during the next discussion. Gradually, parties formed and positions clarified. The hatchet-wavers outnumbered the peace seekers, but Blue's estimates judged the situation not yet undone.
The Seneca were many and screamed for war. There seemed little hope of turning that tribe. The Cayuga, too, were hostile in voice and action. Blue noted that those two, the nations closest to the British in Detroit and Niagara, were best-supplied and hungriest to fight.
The Onondaga were aggressive, but there was discussion. The Tuscarora leaped about like fleas held to fire. If there was consensus among the Tuscarora, Blue could not detect it.
The war chief, Joseph Brant did not need to be present because his Mohawks harbored no doubts. War against white rebels was their chosen destiny. The Mohawk could not be reasoned with.
Finally, the Oneida. Secretly, Big Tree preferred neutrality, but the vigorous and influential Red Jacket was more open and announced to all his increasing determination that the Oneida not be drawn into war.
Three nations chose the warpath, while two vacillated, and one leaned toward peace. Blue Moccasin's words strengthened Oneida neutrality, and they made slippery the positions of Onondaga and Tuscarora. Could the confederacy be split? The possibility rose in the mind of Blue Moccasin.
+++
The fire had burned low and blankets beckoned. The blink of other campfires had dimmed, and passage along the road had ceased. The carrier, Deerfoot, stretched and politely stifled a yawn behind a hand. He touched lightly the vermilion deer tracks that angled across his chest. He had already experimented with two patterns, and Blue Moccasin suspected there would be many more before something simple and distinctive emerged.
Because he faced the path, Blue's eyes caught the silhouettes against other firelight of figures that moved silently and paused in darkness to observe their camp.
He answered Deerfoot's questions about the morrow with his mind split. The almost unseen figures remained motionless, watching and listening. Their lurking presence was unnatural, and Blue shifted in irritation.
From the darkness of the path, Amos Brink observed Blue Moccasin's camp. His eyes searched for sign of other occupants, but Quehana was gone, only Blue Moccasin and the youthful carrier lived there.
Other camps were close, and there would be immediate outcry. Yet, he had only this night. It would be better to slip into the camp while his victims slept, but who could tell if others might even now come frolicking along the path and choose to sleep by the fire of Blue Moccasin. Brink dared not wait.
There was no fear in Amos Brink. He would make his kill and step into the dark. When others came running to discover the murders, he would be among them, demanding pursuit and vengeance. His rushing about would obscure sign and explain his own marks-if any skilled trackers actually looked.
Horror and rage would dominate, but nothing would come of it. The council might grumble, yet, there would also be relief that the persuasive Blue Moccasin would not have to be heard.
Brink's eyes searched the camp for rifle or musket. He saw no guns. There were no clubs or bows. Only the messengers' forked sticks planted upright within their owner's reach protected the runners.
The young Seneca accompanying Brink attempted to hide his revulsion. Raised to honor the old ways, his guts churned, and his mind revolted at the English ranger's intent to kill messengers. Carriers of the forked stick had always been protected. They could stride unmolested through camps of opposing war parties. They were safe on any trails in any nations. Only the carriers tied village-to-village and nation-to-nation. Messengers were the blood of The People. Without them, information could not pass. To attack a messenger was a deed foul to the soul of the young Seneca.
Too long the figures stood in darkness, and Blue Moccasin sensed their evil. He considered a quick dart into forest cover, but what of Deerfoot left exposed and wondering? Would enemy actually attempt violence here, where a single whoop would bring help charging along the path? Who were they? If he faded away or if the lurkers slipped away, he would not know, and they could come again-perhaps undetected. To know an enemy is to arm. Blue Moccasin prepared himself.
Amos Brink stepped into the firelight, his Seneca at his side. Almost casually, he leveled his musket at Blue Moccasin's breast only two steps away. His thumb hooked over the half-cocked hammer, his eyes met those of his victim, and he sought the fear and deathly resignation he hoped to see. The Seneca pointed his nocked arrow at the runner with deer hooves painted on his chest, and Brink put him from his mind.
The musky stench of the man flowed almost visibly to the nostrils of Blue Moccasin, and he deliberately wrinkled his nose in distaste. The white saw no fear, and when Blue Moccasin spoke there was only disdain.
"Did you think you were not seen against other fires while you stood there, white man? Only curiosity held us by this fire. One wonders what dark spirits come from the night to threaten even here, at the council of chiefs."
Deerfoot sat frozen, but the young Seneca threatening him was obviously discomforted. Before the white could speak, Blue Moccasin gripped his forked stick and raised it to eye level, flourishing it before the white's face.
"Do you not know that all nations honor the forked stick? Behind it, the carrier is protected by all law in every village and in every camp. Do you flout the great law, white man?" Blue shook his stick vigorously at the musket holder.
Jerked from his astonishment, Deerfoot, too, thrust his wand almos
t into the features of the Seneca youth, forcing his look of disdain strongly between them.
Sick was the soul of the Seneca, for the words of Blue Moccasin were true. His bow sagged and lost its pull. His eyes fell before the scorn in the runner's eyes.
Amos Brink was unaffected. He was angered that his victim hid fear, but the shot was no harder because of a waving stick.
Brink almost smirked as Blue Moccasin angrily tossed his stick into the campfire coals. Brink heard his words.
"So, this honorless white ignores the law of the Indian. It should be expected."
Brink watched the stick land in the fire and cause sparks to rise. It was enough. He would kill the runner, club his companion if the Seneca failed, and rip loose both scalps while cries were still rising. They would be gone into the forest before questioners arrived.
Brink's thumb eared the musket's hammer as his eyes returned to Blue Moccasin, who was trapped within the roots of the sycamore.
Horrified, Deerfoot read the white's intent. He sought to rise in protest. The Seneca youth could take no more. Bile rising in self-disgust, he turned away.
Amos Brink may have seen the flash that blossomed from the right hand of Blue Moccasin. If seen, awareness could not have registered because the small ball from Rob Shatto's child's pistol struck full power almost on the bridge of Brink's nose. The soft lead flattened and penetrated only a short inch, but its force shattered bone and drove splinters deep into Brink's brain. As though sledged from above, Amos Brink's body collapsed with an ultimate fluidity. The musket slipped from nerveless fingers, and only a series of foot twitches marked the passing of Butler's corporal.
Blue Moccasin witnessed the effect of his shot with inward astonishment. His best hand had lain on the cocked pistol since he had grown suspicious of the watchers. His tossed stick had intended to distract, and he had expected to hit where he aimed, but the execution had been so instantaneous, he could believe the Great Spirit had also smote the foul smelling Englishman.
Song of Blue Moccasin (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 11
