He had her pretty well pinned when the others came up. Farlow smirked, "You're bleedin' a mite, Josh. Reckon she's worth it?"
He looked up, already half-mad, and the squaw got a hand loose. Her nails raked his face leaving red weals, and when he got hold of her arm, she butted her head into his nose so hard tears started.
Thoroughly enraged, Josh grabbed her hair and slammed her head onto the ground. She went slack, but he wasn't done. Cursing he straddled her, and using both hands, repeatedly sledged her head against the ground.
Farlow pushed him off, "Hold up, Josh, she ain't goin' nowhere. Get calm, boy, or you'll use yourself all up."
Looking closer Dunk said, "Hey, I think you done killed her daid, Josh!" He rolled the woman's head aside, "Well lookie there, a big old rock right where you was poundin' her head. She's daid alright, an' there goes our fun an' all!"
Sitting on his haunches, dabbing at his bleeding face, Josh still panted over the struggle. He looked at the dead squaw without remorse, angry that she had clawed him all up over a little fun.
Farlow scratched his bristled chin reflectively, "Well now, Dunk, her bein' dead don't really make no difference, does it? Not like she'd been layin' out for a week or somethin' like that."
Josh was plainly interested, but Dunk was put off, "Well you two can go right ahead, but daid people ain't my style!"
Josh reached down and jerked a bear claw on a leather lace from around the squaw's neck and hung it around his own. "If'n you ain't interested jest stay back, Dunk, 'cause I am. I run her down an' I'm the one got clawed, so I'm goin' first. You all can do what you like."
Farlow giggled nervously, "Take your time Josh. No hurry in this case."
Feeling left out, Dunk said, "Well now, after you two got what you want, I'll jest take her scalp for my share. Might be able to sell it back east. You boys finish up. I'll do the scalpin' after you're done, an' you won't have to look no more." He snickered to himself and went to the creek to sit in the sun.
When Bright Dove was late in returning, a youth went to find her. He returned exhausted from a wild sprint, gasping and pointing.
Long Knife heard him out, holding up a hand to quell the women's wailing. Muscles bunched along his jaw and a tearing agony began behind his eyes. He signaled for his weapons and was handed tomahawk, bow, and hunting quiver. Above muted and anguished women's keening, his first wife held forth his paint pots. He drew a single black line down the bridge of his nose to end below his chin. He wiped his finger on his clout, ordered his people to defend the lodge, and appointed a few to follow as far as Bright Dove. Then he loped swiftly down the stream bank.
The Dove lay as the youth had described. Her clothing was thrown aside and her long braids had been crudely hacked away leaving a blotch of gray skull. He covered her nakedness and moved her to a more private place. He broke branches to show those coming where to look. He stood for a long moment gazing at the body of Bright Dove. With icy rage freezing his emotions, he turned to study the scene.
The story was as clear to The Knife as if he had been present. He backtracked, pausing to recover her basket, knowing how her hands had looked holding it and feeling sick despair rise in his belly. A bit of torn skin clung to a basket corner, and The Knife's lips curled in a bitter snarl. Bright Dove had left her mark.
There had been three whites. Their hard- soled boots left deep tracks. The Knife started swiftly along their trail, able to follow at a run but judging their lead as too long to catch before the sun left the sky.
Foolishly, the fleeing whites attempted to hide their trail in Big Buffalo Creek, and The Knife found their clumsily disguised exit without losing a step. The whites were hurrying now, as though belatedly realizing the enormity of their crime and the savage vengeance that would be on their trail.
The whites struck a good trail that followed the creek, and they had broken into a run. With the easy footing, Long Knife increased his own pace and had time to think ahead.
He would kill the whites. The how of it would be worth savoring as he drew closer, but despite his bitter determination, Long Knife, the counselor, considered the dangers of killing whites here on land that might already be sold from the Indian. Blue Moccasin had spoken of strange white laws, and although he held no fears for himself, white vengeance could descend on others of his tribe or clan. He wished Blue Moccasin was with him to tell other whites of the crime and Long Knife's just punishment, but the message carrier was far to the west.
He drove harder, feeling his lungs beginning to pull but knowing he was gaining with each stride. Sweat sheened his body, and he shifted the bow to dry his hand on his clout. The whites ran only a little way before they slowed to a walk, and later he saw where they had rested. They had sat on a log and one had idly hacked at the rotting bark with a knife. Their worry had been short, and, returning to his trailing, The Knife vowed their lives would be little longer.
Quehana labored at his great lodge on the Little Buffalo only a short distance to the south. If his hatred had been less The Knife would have invited Quehana to join him.
Long Knife pulled up short, stirred by his thoughts. Was not Quehana of white blood? Often in the days of Kneeling Buffalo and E'shan they had asked Quehana of white ways. He grunted in satisfaction. Quehana would accompany him. Quehana would see the justice of Long Knife, and would tell the white fathers the truth of it. His people would not be troubled by other whites seeking revenge. He sucked in a few deep breaths and turned up a draw that reached the ridge separating the Buffalo Creeks.
Together, he and Quehana would seek out the camp of the whites, and the spirit of Bright Dove would know peace.
Rob Shatto was standing off, just admiring his great house. When he took time to look at it, he could hardly believe he had built such a thing out in the middle of nowhere.
The sun had fallen behind the ridge and the first dusk was creeping in. He liked to watch shadows crawl along the stonewalls, then up to the overhung top floor and finally slant from heavy roof tiles. [Rob Shatto's house is fully described in the Arrowmaker editions of 1975 and 2000 and the 2012 eBook.]
In a land where most were pleased to have a shed-roofed cabin, the house sat rock-solid, almost castle-like in its sturdiness. But Rob planned to build only once! At this place he and Becky would raise their children, and here they would finally be buried. He hitched at his worn-out leather pants, eased the two-barreled pistol that nestled into the small of his back, and saw Long Knife coming from the notch of the creek.
The Knife was coming hard, and Rob guessed there was trouble. He jumped the creek and ran to meet him.
Long Knife had been pushing himself and his greeting came between tearing gasps with hands fisted on hips and lungs sucking deep.
Shocked, Rob got the story as he slipped into his own hunting gear. He tore off the heavy pants and shirt that would impede running and used the wide pistol belt to hold up his doeskin clout. He tied on soft Delaware moccasins that would not loosen over rough going. He slid a tomahawk into his belt and draped a small pouch and horn for charging his pistol over a shoulder. He was ready by the time The Knife had finished his story.
Quehana strode to his firepit and rubbed his finger in the soot. Straightening, he looked deep into The Knife's eyes and drew the black stripe of death from his forehead to his chin.
The Knife's eyes flared, his voice was husky with strain and emotion, "Come!" They left in a steady run. There would be no trailing until they reached the Big Buffalo path, and with the failing light there was little time.
At twenty-one, Rob Shatto was a man of startling physique. He was taller than anyone he knew, and the rigors of wilderness living, coupled with the muscle-cracking labors of erecting his home had developed his body to classic proportions. His runner's legs supported a midsection that resembled a cast-iron washboard. His sweep of chest and shoulders rippled with fibered muscle straps that rounded into arms thick with power.
Shatto was catlike in motion and gave a
n impression of terrible speed and crushing strength. Among the tribes, Quehana was thought of as approaching The Warrior himself, and as it was the mighty Iroquois fighter who had named him, the comparison seemed only right.
Although he was little aware of it, to the whites of Carlisle and a few others that knew him, Rob Shatto was intimidating. With sun-darkened skin, hair braided in the Delaware fashion, and wearing hide clothes and that awful pistol, Shatto overwhelmed less warlike natures.
If the good people of Carlisle had seen Quehana and The Knife loping steadily along the death trail, their shudders would have rattled teeth and some doors would have been forever barred to Rob Shatto.
They sped through deepening gloom. Once more on the killers' trail, Rob led so The Knife could run behind and more swiftly regain his energies. Then, as dark made the tracking harder, The Knife took the lead, for he was the better tracker.
They were near the Juniata when it became too dark to follow. The Knife rose from peering closely at the trail. "They continue, Quehana." He stood looking ahead, fixing the path in his mind.
Rob slumped against a log, panting lightly, and Long Knife joined him. Rob brushed futilely at a mosquito buzzing close to his ear. "They are not far ahead, oh Knife!"
"They are near. I can almost smell them, Quehana." The Knife sniffed the air, pointing his strong nose toward the river.
Rob spoke softly, "They could have a canoe. If so, they will cross and camp on the other side, probably a distance downstream."
The Knife nodded, "If they have no canoe, they will cross and camp soon, or they will turn on this side and camp beyond the Little Buffalo, but close to the river."
Rob grunted agreement, and The Knife continued, "We will search along this side of the river. We will move quieter than the foxes. We will stay high on the ridges and watch below for fire. We will listen for sounds and scent the air for smoke or white stink. We will look across the river and perhaps see their fire. If we find nothing, we will cross and find them on the other side."
Again Rob grunted approval, "I think we will find them soon, my uncle. These are lazy men, and they are careless. Their acts are those of the dull, and they loiter when they should hurry. We will see their fire before the moon sets."
There were two fires allowing betraying light through the trees. Quehana and The Knife studied them from high ground.
"One fire rises, sending spark signals to the skies. That fire is against the riverbank so canoes may be present. The other fire is small, and those believe it will not be noticed."
The Knife snorted disdain, "The second fire will be the one we seek."
"True, Long Knife, we will creep close, and I will listen if there is talk. Then we will know what to do."
Dunk complained, "Dang it, Josh, keep that fire low!" He peered furtively at the night forest around them. "No tellin' who's out there."
Farlow sniggered, "Who you think's out there, Dunk? Some big old Injun buck just rarin' to git back for what we done to that squaw?" He held a hand to his ear, "Hark, you hear somethin' out there, Josh?"
The two cackled together, and Josh continued the argument, "Listen, Dunk, them Injuns've got whole piles o'squaws. If one disappears, they just turn to another. They're like dogs doin' things. They jest sort o'all pile together."
"Now just when did you start learnin' all about Injuns, Josh? You didn't know nothin' yesterday, an' I didn't hear that squaw tell you anythin'."
"Don't get in no uproar. It's all been done, an' it's miles back. Tomorrow we'll be at Hunter's on Fishin' Creek tellin' about it, an' you'll maybe get an' offer fer that scalp."
Dunk didn't appear convinced, he muttered about how they ought to of kept moving. The others cut him off, and they talked of land they had staked along the Big Buffalo.
Well within hearing, Quehana listened until he knew enough. Snake-quiet he returned to where The Knife waited. They withdrew to a safe distance and sat in the dark to talk.
"They are the ones, Long Knife."
Quehana heard The Knife's knuckles crack as he flexed his fingers. "Then I will kill them, Quehana."
Rob waited, expecting The Knife to say more. Well able to have run the squaw killers down, Long Knife had turned aside for Quehana's help. Rob supposed he knew why.
Finally The Knife spoke, "You know the white ways and the white tongue, Quehana. You will see that the vengeance of Long Knife is just. It may be good that the white fathers know how it was, lest they blame others of my tribe."
Rob spoke solemnly, "The white fathers will be told, Long Knife, and the words of Quehana will be heard in all corners so the truth will be known."
Inwardly Rob sighed, there was no way to explain to The Knife that in most white minds there could be no justification for the three men's slaying. He would tell the facts of Bright Dove's death, but all that would be remembered would be the execution of three white men by unrepentant savages.
It would be pointless to trouble Long Knife with the problem, and Rob Shatto stood beside his friend in requiring the immediate and final justice because, once the murderers crossed the Susquehanna, there would be no judgment or punishment by white authority. Furthermore, Rob Shatto wanted it done now and done right, by Long Knife, as it should be.
Dawn was the time to attack an enemy. Barely wakened and soft with sleep, the whites would be easily taken. Then, in the clear light of a new day, with his mind cooled by a night of waiting, Long Knife would exact payment for Bright Dove's life.
A hard toe in the ribs brought the man called Dunk rudely awake. Angered, he half-started to his feet, but the sight of two painted warriors standing above him turned his legs to water. He sank back croaking feebly for his companions.
The two woke, sleep-sodden and slow. Josh fumbled for his gun, but it was gone and he whimpered aloud until Farlow cursed him silent. They sprawled, afraid to move as the silent figures loomed over them. Barely moving his lips, Farlow whispered, "Anybody see more'n two of 'em?"
The trio peered furtively about, and Dunk's hoarse voice filled the gap. "Don't see no more, but these is big ones an' they got our guns someplace."
"The guns're over behind 'em, you fat fool, an' we've still got our knives. We ain't done-in yet. Keep calm an' let me do the talkin'. Jest be ready if I make a move.
They lay still as the taller warrior said something in Indian to the older man. He was answered only by a sibilant hiss of air sucked through clenched teeth. Farlow didn't like the sound at all.
Smiling servilely and holding forth a placating hand, Farlow rose to his knees. Through his smile, he muttered, "Be ready when I stand up."
He moved a foot to stand, and the older Indian flashed into motion. His overlong blade snicked free of its hide scabbard and glittered in an arc before Farlow's face.
Farlow's eyes bulged, and his tongue flopped loosely. His hands tried to rise, then his head fell grotesquely sideward, and blood geysered from his neck virtually severed by Long Knife's slash.
There was a shocked silence before Josh screamed, covering his face, and as Farlow's feet jerked and scraped in a convulsive death dance, Dunk vomited across his shirtfront, too stunned to turn aside.
Rob Shatto watched the man die without remorse or particular satisfaction. It was Long Knife's right and duty. The murderer was fortunate to have died so quickly. If Long Knife had considered the three true warriors, he might have granted them warrior deaths, and that could have meant days of agonizing torture.
Long Knife spoke through gritted teeth, and even the melodic Delaware sounded brutal and harsh. "It is not enough! They die like sick beasts. They have no hearts, no honor. They are nothing."
Rob guessed The Knife had it about right. The big one that had puked himself was babbling, begging, pleading, and blaming the skinny one who was now peering through his hands like a cornered rat. Disgusted, Rob turned to The Knife. "The fat one blames the mouse for it all, but The Dove's scalp is in his belt."
Disgust clear in his voice, Rob spoke in E
nglish to the two survivors, "Isn't there any man in either of you? Can't you at least die without whining and wallowing like hogs?"
Astounded, but with hope leaping in their eyes, the two stared at the big Indian with the black stripe dividing his face.
Pointing a shaking finger, Josh quivered, "My God, Dunk, he ain't no Injun, he's a white man. Look, see there along his clout, that there's white skin showin'." Relief had grown in his voice, and Dunk took heart from it.
"Lordy, Mister, you ain't goin' to stand by an' let that Injun murder us, are ya? We ain't done a thing, an' he's already killed old Farlow there."
Gaining confidence, he looked closer and sudden recognition came to him. His voice took on strength, "Hey, I know you now. I seen you in Carlisle once't. You're that Shatto fella that lives up in these valleys."
He turned excitedly to Josh, as though the man couldn't hear him, "Why look a'here, Josh, this is Rob Shatto I seen in Carlisle jest a little while back. You ain't goin' to let him hurt us are ya, Shatto?"
His voice cold as the grave, Rob spit his words at them. "This is Long Knife, a warrior, a hunter, a man of honor, and a loyal friend. You should know your enemy!
"You, who killed and used his woman ask if I will let Long Knife hurt you.
"Here is your answer. Long Knife is going to kill you. If he requests it, I will help him. If he wishes, I will do it alone."
The Knife spoke, "What do they ask, Quehana?"
"They beg me to help them, oh Knife."
"Help them live or help them die?"
"They wish to live, Long Knife. I told them they had seen the sun move for the last time."
"Tell them this, Quehana. Tell them that they have knives. When they hear the death cry they may fight, for then I will kill them."
He paused, his features drawn tight, his eyes glittering black, "Make them fight, my nephew, for slaughtering them while they squeal is not enough."
The whites hung on Rob's words, their mouths slack and their eyes staring. "Long Knife chooses to fight you both at once. His knife against yours. When he screams, you'll fight or you will die where you're sitting. Get yourselves ready."
Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 12
