Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Shikee stopped abruptly at the edge of the meadow causing Quehana to bump into his back. They stood panting lightly, while Quehana examined the open ground. The two grandfathers sat beneath the oak and squaws bustled at the lodges. Long Knife stood naked in thigh deep water washing his body and his clout.

  Shikee said, "Do you recall last summer, my brother, when we were but children and Long Knife nearly drowned us in the pool?"

  "Of course I remember! Do you think the time has come for our revenge?"

  "Yes, my brother!"

  "Good, but use caution. The Knife is as strong as a bear. You hold his attention, and I will get a good grip on him. Then you come in as swift as an otter."

  "Last year he nearly pulled my scalp off."

  "This year, we will pull his."

  They entered the meadow walking easily and talking loudly.

  Long Knife watched their approach, speaking softly to the men under the oak. "Now there are two camp robbers!"

  E'shan said, "They have grown these last seasons. Shikee is quickest, but Quehana has a man's strength."

  Kneeling Buffalo added with a chuckle, "Look at them. Do they really think no one suspects their intent?"

  "They are young and confident, my father. The young expect always to win, but now I must appear stupid and unsuspecting."

  The youths greeted the camp, laying aside their weapons and asking about the warmth of the stream water. Long Knife had moved to the deepest part of the small pond and was busily scrubbing and wringing his clout.

  Quehana moved upstream with a studied nonchalance that brought groaning from The Buffalo which quieted with E'shan's sharp elbow in his ribs.

  Shikee loitered at the water's edge examining moss and rocks. The Knife turned partly away and the youths sprang in unison.

  Shikee's ferocious war whoop was almost instantly stilled as the Knife's sopping clout slapped smartly into his face, blinding his vision and halting his charge.

  Bellowing his own fearsome cry and splashing water in sheets, Quehana rushed at Long Knife's back. He landed atop The Knife and kept on going as the older man bowed his back and heaved mightily. Quehana's roar turned to a squall as he arced high and struck the water flat on his back.

  The old men cackled, and the squaws and children gathered to watch. Shikee grappled with The Knife as Quehana again joined the battle. The three struggled for footing, then disappeared amid mighty splashing. Bodies roiled and limbs rose and again sank into the rapidly muddying water.

  Shikee surfaced, sucking for air, but a powerful hand grasped his scalp, and he went under, eyes rolling and arms flailing.

  Quehana and Long Knife rose, struggling in each other's arms. They fought for balance with Shikee still trampled beneath, then crashed into the pond like fallen trees.

  Shikee appeared, separated from the melee, gagging and choking and weakly dragged himself to the bank. He reached it just as Long Knife rose to his full height with Quehana trapped helplessly in his arms.

  Quehana's clout was hanging from one foot showing the whiteness of his skin where the sun seldom reached it. The Knife squeezed for a long moment letting it be known who was master, then, with a great splash, flung Quehana into shallows near his still gagging companion.

  A squaw dashed to recover Long Knife's clout which had floated over the dam while the Knife turned his back on the defeated duo to seek cleaner water upstream. Only the two old men saw him roll his eyes in exhaustion. They nodded solemnly, keeping his secret.

  E'shan spoke loudly, "Has the day come that field mice attack the bear?"

  Kneeling Buffalo's laughter grated on youthful ears, "The mice I saw challenged the eagle, but even mice may learn, if they survive long enough."

  There was little response from the mice, but after a moment Shikee threatened darkly, "Wait until next year!"

  Kneeling Buffalo made the breaking wind sound, causing laughter with even Shikee grinning ruefully. The Knife joined in, but he resolved that there would be no wrestling match the following summer. The youths grew too strong, and by another year they would be men that would need all his attention.

  The wrestling had lifted The Knife's despondency, and around the lodge fire he told of the Shamokin council's rejection of his views. The Buffalo shifted irritably with the telling, but E'shan nodded at the affirmation of his expectations.

  For once quieted, Shikee and Quehana listened with only occasional punches, twists, and subdued scuffles.

  The lodge sides had been opened to allow the evening cool to enter, and the fire burned low, merely keeping coals warm for cooking and pipe lighting. With dusk, occasional pitchy brands were added to give light, but the night was clear, and moonlight flooded the meadows.

  E'shan said, "Soon I shall move to Augwick and let the whites have this meadow." He sighed heavily, "There I will trade more points anyway."

  Unsympathetically, Kneeling Buffalo agitated, "You will trade few points anywhere my friend. Guns do not need points." Scratching further at E'shan's wounds, "I've never known why hunters came to trade anyway. An arrowpoint can be made by a squaw in the time it takes to skin a squirrel. Enough points lie in the fields to supply every need. I would never come this far to trade my furs for such simple things."

  Long Knife smiled behind his hand, safely looking away.

  E'shan's glare should have turned Kneeling Buffalo to dust, but the Buffalo returned his friend's baleful stare with his own half-lidded innocence.

  "I recall, oh Buffalo's Rump, that this lodge has long wrapped itself in furs carried here on your back. I also recall your whining for an extra point or two. If the meadows are rich with points, they are probably yours that so often flew wide of their mark.

  E'shan snarled, "I will go to Aughwick, where guns are not constantly heard, and you, my ancient friend, will seek me out. Not, I admit to buy points, as your bow pulling days are behind. Others will buy the points while you sit close-by listening to my words and trying to understand my meaning."

  E'shan raised his chin, haughtily ignoring Kneeling Buffalo's grimaces.

  When the others slept, Quehana lay awake watching stars rising from behind the ridges. The moon had gone, and the meadows lay dark. The creek gurgled, and soft winds chased among the trees, sometimes reaching the lodge and cooling him where he lay.

  The words of the evening hung heavily in his thoughts. E'shan would go, and whites would come. Nothing would again be the same.

  His own plan had not changed. In these valleys and among the tribes he was Quehana, so named by The Warrior himself, but in the white world he was Rob Shatto, and despite two years in the lodge of E'shan, his stick floated with the whites. He was Quehana, brother to Shikee and adopted grandson of E'shan, but he was also Rob Shatto, grandson of David Shatto, who had fled Carlisle to build a place in the Endless Hills.

  The lodge of E'shan had saved him from fever. He had lived fat on marrow bones and grown strong running with Shikee. They had visited a hundred strange camps, and Delaware grew natural to his tongue. He was accepted by the tribes as Quehana, as fully as the white world accepted him as Rob Shatto.

  Long Knife had shown the blade he had found and carried since boyhood. Long Knife had fixed a crude handle to the blade, and it had given him his name. Rob Shatto recognized the blade as a broken sword tip. He had fired his wagon forge and heated the broken end until it lost its temper. He had pierced the annealed end with two holes and affixed a brass guard and a proper handle of shaped horn. Rob Shatto had done that, although Long Knife had thanked Quehana.

  He could see in his mind's eye the broad sweep of the Susquehanna, and he knew each hollow and ridge from Kittatinny to Tuscarora Mountain. No stream had missed his view. He knew the bee trees and where the turkeys traveled. He knew the deer parks and the winter burrows of the bears.

  Of all of it, he loved most the meadows of the Little Buffalo. If E'shan moved, he would stay. Here at the edge of Sherman's Valley he would build his home and open his forge. In time, whit
es would arrive. He might have neighbors just over the ridge, and in his planning, he would have a wife and many strong sons.

  His thoughts turned to a certain Becky Reed he had known in Carlisle, and through his dreaming, he decided to visit there soon.

  Chapter 5 - 1753

  The man called Ratherbone kept his back to the wall and watched trouble surface. There were seven of the drovers. Big, meaty, round-headed Germans, they were of a type that traveled the roads buying hogs, cattle, or fowl and walking the gathers to the Philadelphia markets.

  The drovers were dirty and raucous. Their boisterous entrance to the tavern common room had caused other patrons to slip away. Ratherbone stayed because that was his way, and he guessed staying or going as they wished was also the way of three younger men along the crude bar.

  Ratherbone understood drovers well enough. The nomadic straggling behind flocks of stinking beasts did not often attract the ambitious, and this band was typical of the breed. Their mood was as sour as their smell and boded difficult times for the three men sharing the bar. The drovers were spoiling for a brawl, and at the moment the odds appeared suitable.

  The three at the bar were also of a kind, and they interested Ratherbone more than the burly drovers. They were blond, clean-shaven men with wild hair more blown than brushed. They appeared taller than most and in their good leather boots touched six feet. In cloth pants and linsey shirts they seemed men of some station, but their hands were large knuckled and work hardened. Their bodies were plainly tough with muscle developed by rough physical labor.

  Ratherbone knew the type. Scotch-Irish and independent as eagles, they inhabited small frontier farms and had little patience with people other than their own. They tended to be questioning men who gave their trust only after it was earned. They were clannish and loyal to the core. They were also as hard as hickory knots and were not to be trifled with.

  The Germans had been loud in ordering and had flung their money noisily onto the bar, muttering about short measure and dire consequences for anyone foolish enough to cross their path.

  Following a single look, the three Scots had ignored the drovers, and this alone seemed enough to arouse the ire of their red-faced leader.

  The drovers were not clever instigators. They agitated with blunt crudities that grew increasingly coarse. When the blond men ignored such sour bait, the drovers increased their belligerencies, directing their remarks without circumspection or restraint.

  "Let's throw the pretty boys into the road, Fritz."

  The leader struck a thick knee with a meaty palm and guffawed. "We should maybe not open the door first, Johan?"

  The sally struck the drovers as rare humor, and they mauled each other's ribs and thumped boots on the puncheon floor.

  Unhurriedly, the men at the bar touched their mugs and drained the last of their drinks. In turn they shook the hand of the plainly nervous tavern keeper and, ignoring the drovers, moved toward the door.

  Seeing his intended prey escaping, the head drover scrambled from his stool to stand between the three men and the tavern exit. Benches scraped as the remaining drovers belatedly rose to support their leader.

  Surrounded by hulking drovers, the three Scots drew together without word or sign, as though understanding the others' thoughts and plans. They formed a close-knit triangle with no backs exposed, and Ratherbone thought it well done. Still, matched against seven, the three had no real chance, and four against seven would be little better. Ratherbone wished his nature would allow him to stay out of it.

  The head drover said something Ratherbone failed to catch, but the blue-eyed man facing him spoke bell clear. "Step aside or I'll break in your face."

  The audacity of it thrilled Ratherbone, and even as the red-faced drover searched for a suitable retort, he let himself become part of it.

  "Now seven on three seems a bit lopsided. So don't you ugly pig chasers forget that I'm over here behind you all!"

  Startled faces swung toward him and Ratherbone thought, now's the time to lay into them, but the three men took no action, except that the youngest eased a hand to the grip of his hunting knife.

  Flustered, the head drover stalled, "Was ist? You are not here wanted!"

  Ratherbone chose a name, "I'm their brother, James, and I'm of a mind to tell you that our cousins Rueben, Josh, and Connell are holding our horses. So if you've a mind for real trouble, you've picked the right family!"

  Nervous shuffling among the drovers was interrupted by a tremendous crash that jerked eyes toward the bar. Wielding a great oaken club the taverner pointed it at the knot of drovers and then again pounded it resoundingly on his bar top.

  "These Robinsons're friends, so there'll be no trouble for 'em here. You drovers set down or git clear o'this tavern right now!"

  There was more indecisive shifting around, and Ratherbone figured the drovers just needed some way of backing off without looking as if they were quitting. He was about to make a comment that would have turned things into a joking matter when the blond man facing the head drover acted.

  With a snort of disgust he hit the hulking drover on the points of both shoulders with the heels of his hands. The unexpected blow staggered the drover. The blond man's words were winter cold, "I told you step aside. I'll not tell you again."

  Sure that the line had been crossed, Ratherbone gathered himself to fight, but the drover hesitated, and the blond man pushed on past him toward the door. His companions followed closely, and Ratherbone found it necessary to move quickly or be left alone with seven highly irritated Germans. Leaving his final swallow of beer, he strode purposefully to the door and thankfully closed it behind him. There was momentary silence from within, then muttering was followed by rough laughter. Scraping stools told that the drovers were sitting down, and Ratherbone heard himself sighing in relief. Tension drained away, and he found himself gazing squarely into three sets of eyes as blue as his own.

  The Robinsons, or so the keeper had called them, studied him as level-eyed as he did them. They saw a man about their own size with the same Nordic yellow hair and strong blue eyes. He really could pass as their brother.

  The youngest of the trio broke the silence with his soft chuckle, "Mighty fine meeting you brother, James, but I don't reckon we'll be seeing all of those other kin you reeled off in there."

  Ratherbone's grin cracked the features of the other two, and the man who had led the exodus thrust forward an oak-strong hand to grip Ratherbone's.

  "Brother James, or whatever name you choose, you surely saved us a bitter time. You've our thanks, and we would drink on it, but I suspect the time is not right to linger overlong."

  "Ay, it would seem better to place a distance between those drovers and ourselves. If you've the time, my wagon is over near the grove, although I've little to offer except cold spring water."

  The short walk to Ratherbone's wagon allowed time for the Robinsons to make themselves known.

  Samuel, the oldest, appeared about 30 in age. A quiet man, he chose to let George speak and decide for them. Ratherbone supposed that Samuel was one of those good and steady men, that while excellent followers, lacked the spark required for leadership.

  George Robinson looked twenty-five or so. It had been George that had threatened to break in the drover's face and who had shoved the German almost contemptuously aside. George had approved their stop at Ratherbone's wagon, and he spoke for them en-route.

  However, George suffered repeated interruptions from Robert, the youngest of the three. Robert bubbled with youthful zest, and Ratherbone took an immediate liking.

  Although the youngest, Robert was perhaps twenty-one years of age, and Ratherbone remembered how his hand had closed around his knife when things had gotten tight in the common room.

  Together, the Robinsons were formidable. Physically large enough, their varying temperaments complemented each other and created the unity that Ratherbone had admired in the tavern. They were returning west to their homes and had also
parked their wagon in a shaded grove where the horses, switching tails and rattling harness at annoying flies, could doze in comfort.

  Ratherbone's wagon was a weary farm cart only lightly loaded with housekeeping goods. The wagon was drawn by an ancient nag of doubtful parentage. Plainly, Ratherbone was not well-to-do.

  As they approached, Ratherbone's call drew his wife from behind the poor wagon, hastily drying her hands on her apron and poking at stray bits of auburn hair that peeped from beneath her bonnet. Ratherbone introduced her with obvious pride, and the Robinsons swept off their broad hats in response to the lady's deep curtsy.

  Ratherbone's Ann stood average height in her clumsy work shoes. Her body was strong with solid rounded limbs. With long hair caught up beneath a poke bonnet, her dark, wide-spaced eyes snapped with interest, and her welcoming smile showed even, white teeth against sun-darkened skin.

  Husband and wife made an attractive couple, and the hardy Robinsons were taken with them. The harsh frontier coarsened many colonists. This couple was an exception.

  Seated comfortably about the wagon with the promised spring water, it was Ratherbone's turn to speak about himself.

  He hesitated, and his wife took his hand in encouragement. The Robinsons, as though anticipating something unusual, waited him out.

  Though a naturally outgoing man and not given to secret doings, Ratherbone had held his story personal. Now he found himself about to divulge the complications of his and Ann's very life together. He had known the Robinsons less than an hour, but there was a squareness about the men that bespoke honor, and Lord knows, he needed a bit of help at this point. He resolved to forge ahead.

  He paused, letting his eyes touch on the blond Robinson hair and fair skin. "No doubt our people come from common stock, if we could trace it back to those early times. When I was a wee lad, my father's ship struck and foundered off the English coast, against the Isle of Mann. We made the shore and took up residence among the island people. We fished for livelihood and put up a good hut of stone with a thickly thatched roof for all weather.