Tim Murphy, Rifleman

by Roy F. Chandler

Caraway did not draw forth tobacco. There would then have been only choices of smoke or battle. Instead Caraway talked. Tim hoped he could finish before the young Huron was on him, hatchet flashing.

  Caraway said, "For too many winters Short Wolf has been gone from the White Fathers. Caraway has watched for his return." Someone's breath hissed between teeth.

  Caraway sighed deeply, ignoring the threat. When he spoke again, Tim feared Caraway's mind had wandered because he spoke of old and bitter times.

  "In war, there are good men on all sides, as there are bad men. Good men are killed as are bad, and sometimes no one is sure who is good, who is bad, or who killed who." Caraway employed another sigh.

  "It is said that war was once noble, with the taking of coup by touching an enemy as important as killing. That could be true, but I have seen it only once.

  "In the French and English war killing replaced honor. Brave warriors fell before muskets handled by cowards and heroic deeds went unnoticed with only the number of scalps counting.

  "Among the English soldiers the name of a great enemy warrior gained notice. Courageous feats were told. Mighty coups were counted, and many scalps were taken in combat by this hero. His name was Tall Deer.”

  Tim could not have believed a greater tension, but it came. There was a snarl, and the brave behind Caraway drew his blade. Even Short Wolf's stern mouth turned downward, and Tim thought he saw pain touch along the old man's eyes.

  Caraway appeared blind to it all. He continued, "At many battles the victory cry of Tall Deer rose above all others. Tall Deer struck like the Great Spirit's lightning at the center of English lines—but it could seem that at almost the same instant his whoop would be heard on the left or the right, and his enemies would die. Mighty were the deeds of Tall Deer of the Huron.”

  The audience heard unmoving, captivated by Caraway's descriptions. Tim did not recall stories of Tall Deer, but clearly he had been a great warrior. Tim wished Caraway's Huron was better, but he had also begun the hand talk that all read with ease.

  "The power of Tall Deer came to the ears of the English Chief. So strong was that power that the great chief feared Tall Deer might turn the winds and bring victory to the French. So, the white chieftain turned to his own killer, a fighter who had come from across the great water because his many triumphs had raised too many distant enemies. This fighter was pointed at Tall Deer. His task was to kill Tall Deer. No honorable combat was mentioned. Great rewards were offered to this English killer for the scalp of Tall Deer. The killer's name was Caraway."

  The tension cracked silent reserve with moans, low and agonizing as if from wounds long untreated. The listening host surged as one, but Caraway's eyes held tight to those of Short Wolf. The patriarch remained unmoving and the surge held. A word, a gesture, an eye blink and Caraway would have been buried amid flashing knives and battering clubs. Close at Caraway's side and apparently ignored, the boy knew that he too would be included in whatever happened. Terror clawed at his mind, but he could do nothing.

  Caraway allowed the moment to stabilize. Then he continued as though nothing had changed, as if his story telling meant to his listener nothing more than idle reminiscing about ancient times.

  "Caraway began his search for the Huron Tall Deer, but his enemy was like smoke and was gone before Caraway could arrive." Tim Murphy saw the cold smiles touch stiffened lips and an older man nodded in understanding.

  "As he hunted, Caraway learned more of Tall Deer. He heard the brave tales, and once he caught a distant echo of the hero's scream of victory. Truly, even the echo raised bumps on the skin of Caraway.

  "But there were other stories on the wind. Tall Deer was himself the first son of a noble fighter who could claim coups against Iroquois and Lacotas, against tribes many had never faced. Tall Deer, it was also told, was father to many sons, sons expected in their turn to lead the Huron in peace and in war. Great was the respect in the heart of Caraway for Tall Deer, but respect only made Caraway hunt harder, for the mighty honor lies in battle between the best.

  "It is said by some that Tall Deer too heard of Caraway's challenge. It may have been so because their paths met along the French Creek, which flows to the Allegheny. There, Caraway and Tall Deer fought as warriors should. There each tested the other as true warriors should." Caraway paused. His eyes had lost focus and he seemed to speak without awareness of an audience.

  Tim Murphy was aware enough for both. The Huron of Short Wolf were held spellbound by the telling. Wrath and hatred were not gone, but each was banked by hunger to hear Caraway's tale.

  Early in the story the boy had decided that Tall Deer was the son—or had been the son—of Short Wolf, and that the murder-hungry young men were the many sons Caraway spoke of. Tim could not imagine why Caraway would choose to sit at this fire or tell his terrible story. Charlie Pierre had said Caraway was twisted by the Great Spirit. Clearly his father was correct. Tim hoped mightily that the people of Short Wolf would see the twisting and spare them both.

  "The day was like night, the sun hidden and rain slicing in bitter gusts. Because of the rain Caraway's gun would not fire, but Caraway did not care. He laid aside the rifle and chose two knives." There were startled exclamations as both boot knife and long, hip knife virtually appeared in Caraway's hands. The draws had been almost too swift to see, and if in anger, too rapid to prevent.

  Caraway held the blades with thumbs on top, tips pointing away as if they were short swords. Breaths held, but no one sensed danger from the knives. They would be as little before the many surrounding Caraway.

  Leaning forward the long hunter laid his knives beyond his easy reach. He settled again into the straight-backed position of speaking and resumed his tale.

  "Like panthers, the warriors circled and sought openings. At times one struck, but for each it was like fighting his shadow. Always, the blow was blocked or the body shifted away.

  "Caraway could scarcely believe, for he had met and defeated fighters whose only wish was to fight with iron knives.

  "The combat raged, and the fighters struggled together. Their tricks were met by equal tricks, their strengths by equal strengths, their courage and determination as if from the same heart. They clawed and bit and drew blood, rolling and kicking grunting like buffalo striving only to kill the other.

  "They fell apart and lay glaring, too spent to do more. Their chests rose and fell like dying animals, and the sound of their breathing sawed the air.

  "As each regained strength he sought to hide it from the other, but it was like one's face in a calm pool. Each knew, and when one lunged they found they had again acted as one.

  "Twice they crawled apart and hid themselves, storing strength, and listening for the other. But, when they came again, it was as before. Neither could count coup.

  "They slumped exhausted too spent to do more. One laughed to himself at the futility of it. The other heard and laughed as well.

  "One said, 'your strength and heart are great.'

  "The other answered, 'Yours are at least equal.'

  "They did not try again. Instead they spoke, and as the sun moved they laid aside weapons and sat closer, in personal council.

  "And Caraway held the strong hand of Tall Deer in his own, as brothers grip without test or reserve. Men who have fought each other can hold respect for one who was once his enemy.

  "So, they agreed. The fighting had been all that could be asked. Honor had been gained, recognized, and shared. They would fight no more. If one found the other, his call would warn, and they would turn away to fight others. Warriors who know each other can make such bindings. They separated and went their ways."

  Caraway again stopped. Without apparent meaning he reached for his knives, but to his listeners it was clear that, like them, Caraway had been deeply moved by his story. The boy could feel the ebbing of the rage that had gripped the family of Short Wolf, but Caraway's story was not finished.

  "Caraway had gone only a little way when he heard a musk
et shot. The Tall Deer would have been near the sound. A Shawnee whoop followed. Caraway began a circle.

  "Over the body of Tall Deer stood a Shawnee. The warrior held the Deer ready for scalping. The rage of Caraway was blinding, but rage at what? The Shawnee had killed his enemy, as he should do. He had shot from ambush, but that is the usual way. He would take the scalp for that was his right. Caraway could not kill the Shawnee warrior for doing as he should.

  "But Caraway could also not turn away. Instead, he clubbed the Shawnee senseless and in bitter anger took his trigger finger. He threw away the Shawnee's weapons even his clout and moccasins. With Tall Deer's knife Caraway cut the Deer's mark into the Shawnee's chest.

  "It was all Caraway could do. He carried the body of Tall Deer away and hid it high in a great tree. Then Caraway went away and sought to give peace to the spirit of Tall Deer."

  "When the French fled and the English became the fathers of the Huron, Caraway sought the lodge of Short Wolf, but the Wolf had gone and none knew where.

  "Among the Huron people a story had risen of how Caraway had killed Tall Deer. Many versions were told. All were lies, but Caraway lived and Tall Deer did not. Caraway did not speak because his words could have been scorned and few would have believed.

  "So, this boy and Caraway, traveling far, find in their path the camp of Short Wolf. The sign of the Sky Father is upon the meeting. Caraway did not fear the black looks or the ready hatchets. Sky Father watched, it was time to speak."

  Caraway drew his possibles pouch and removed items until he found what he wanted. Tim Murphy's eyes widened, for he like the others guessed what Caraway would show.

  "Here is the finger of the Shawnee. It is wrapped in a scrap of Tall Deer's clout, which bears painting, by his woman. She will know it." Caraway handed across the grim trophy, adding only, "It is all I have."

  They remained a day with the family of Short Wolf. Freed of hatred, proud in the glory of the once fighter Tall Deer, who had been a father, a son, a brother, an uncle—who had fought to a standstill Caraway the killer, scalper, and man burner—the Huron were splendid in their welcoming.

  Caraway told again and again the mighty tale. Those who heard preserved the words and reorganized them for retelling throughout the Huron Nation.

  Always, Caraway remained aloof, telling without becoming one with the family. When the boy sought to escape to join other youths, Caraway's hand held him. In English he said, "Do not play with the Indian children, Timothy."

  It was many weeks after their departure from the friendly clutches of Short Wolf that Tim Murphy once more spoke of Tall Deer to his teacher. By then, he spoke enough English to share conversation.

  When he asked to hear again the story of Tall Deer, only in English because it was all they spoke together, Caraway had sighed in resignation before beginning.

  "The sons of Short Wolf are as numerous as ticks on an August dog. It was their belief that I killed Tall Deer. As long as they stayed away it did not matter. If they returned, I would be forever bothered by hopeful children shooting and leaping from ambush. When I saw the Wolf at his fire I knew the time had come to end the annoyance."

  Caraway's voice was cold, like a dive into a winter pond. His words were as emotionless as if he were naming objects for Tim to identify.

  "Tall Deer was a brutal, lunge-ahead killer. If he had skills, I did not meet them. My rifle was too wet to fire, but I would not have wasted a ball. When Tall Deer came, I gutted him, slashed his ankles so that he could not rise, and waited until he ceased trying. When I held his eye I cut his throat. If the weather had been dry I would have burned his body. Instead, I took his scalp and heaved his carcass into the creek. The water was high and swift. Tall Deer was gone forever.

  "I took his finger and wrapped it to send to the Huron as a taunt, but the fighting ended, and it was not needed. Almost immediately Hurons seeking vengeance sought the scalp of Caraway. One by one I have eliminated them. Some I burned as warning, others I left where they fell. Now only a few still wait. If they come, they too will visit their honored dead."

  Caraway sighed, deep and heavily, "But I am tired of it. They are too easy. So, let it end, Tim Murphy. Let Short Wolf and his pups live in pride. For them it is better than truth."

  Tim was stunned. The lie was huge and the performance convincing. "They were ready to kill you, Caraway."

  The Hunter's shrug touched French eloquence. "Emotion ran strong, but men can be played like instruments . . . and if they had killed me, my knives would still have carved many. Would any of it have mattered?"

  Tim Murphy thought so, for he surely would have been among the dead.

  After a lengthy silence Caraway said, perhaps only to himself, "In all this American wilderness I have heard of only two I would give much to fight. One is an Iroquois. He is called The Warrior, and he is said to be the deadliest killer ever known. The other is a white, a younger man, perhaps born among the Delaware. He is said to live in a house with a roof of stone. He is called Quehana—the Arrowmaker—so named by The Warrior. Some say he is a giant, perhaps equal to The Warrior himself.

  "These two I would like to fight, to use all that I know, to allow the black madness to run unchanneled, to match skill against skill as I claimed to have done with Tall Deer.

  "This is an endless land and the chances are indeed small. I am now forty years of age and soon edges will dull. Later, I will lose more until . . ." Caraway pondered, "Then I will huddle in my blankets like a fearful squaw, hoping men such as Quehana or The Warrior do not find me."

  Caraway's laughter was not good to hear. Tim Murphy felt himself tremble.

  Chapter 4

  Wandering

  In late summer their wanderings placed the two north of Lake Superior, where Caraway had supposed bugs would be fewer and the heat less oppressive. He was wrong on both counts. Mosquitoes clouded vision and heat lay like a soggy blanket. Indians they encountered sat out the days in blanket-covered stolidity, enveloped in smoke from damp wood fires. It was reported that the mosquitoes actually thickened to the north.

  Life was horrible. Caraway prescribed bear grease on all exposed skin. The layered-on, lardy, ill-smelling grease did help. Mosquitoes died in it by the thousands.

  For a few days a wind blew and no bugs appeared. The relief was so great that it made the return of hot still air and the bugs even less endurable. Tim Murphy learned new English words from Caraway. Words that had no counterparts in Indian languages. Caraway's temper turned testy, and his eyes developed a dangerous glittery look that was hard to ignore.

  They entered Lacota lands and swung south heading toward more open country where breezes could gain strength and blow away the mosquitoes. Before they found the grasslands, they met the Frenchmen.

  Caraway could have avoided the meeting. The Frenchmen were heard singing some sort of rough song for a long way. Instead, Caraway clung to the trail as if to dispute passage. The boy sensed a peculiar tension in the man but could not identify it.

  The French were accompanied by three Indians with unrecognized tribal markings. The Indians' weapons were primitive, and Tim saw only one iron knife among the flint tipped arrows and stone clubs.

  It was instinctive to examine weapons even before faces. A thousand miles from assistance, the strong did as they wished—which was why Tim wondered at Caraway's willingness to encounter an unscouted party.

  The French were very different. They wore strange knitted caps, and their shoes were heavy with thick soles. Short men, their beards were of a color and Tim thought they might be brothers. They shared a huge pistol, many knives and a sword. The armament was as strange as their dress, ill-suited for the forest, Tim thought. He supposed the Indians hunted for them. Despite their recent singing, the Frenchmen lined shoulder to shoulder, barring passage, appraising Caraway, who stood quietly, waiting out their decision, and Tim Murphy felt the tension in Caraway blossom into an almost visible aura. Oppressive, deadly, the boy could smell and taste it.
He caught its essence, like the scent of a snake den. Tim's scalp tightened, and he took an involuntary step away.

  The center Frenchman spoke. He stood with a fist gripping his half-cocked pistol. Tim had little French, but had heard its flow among the Huron people. The Frenchman's tone was bullying and clearly discourteous. Tim suspected Caraway was pleased by it. Why, the boy could not reason. Caraway answered in the same nose-blocked tones, and Tim remembered that Caraway had spoken of living in France.

  Caraway's answer in their own language surprised the French. Tim judged the sounds and believed Caraway was laying a hard tongue on the three. Tim's unease leaped a notch.

  Taken aback by unexpected opposition the French became voluble. Gestures approached dramatic, and Caraway fairly spit his words.

  The three separated a step, and hands touched knives. Faces blackened in anger, and the strange Indians stepped away.

  Caraway laughed, a cruel barking sound directed at the road blockers that was followed by a slow carefully pronounced word pattern that could only be purest insult.

  A Frenchman growled and drew his knife. The pistol came free, and the long sword slid in its scabbard. Tim Murphy saw Indians scattering. He found his own fingers gripping his small cutting knife—and Caraway's longrifle leveled. The hunter's palm slid the hammer to full cock and his finger stroked its trigger. The rifle cracked and bucked, muzzle smoke obscured the pistol drawing Frenchman.

  In a short instant, hard words had become life or death combat. Within the rifle smoke the pistol wielder collapsed like a dropped garment. Caraway released his empty rifle, and a knife slid into his right hand.

  Caraway did not spare a glance. His body turned sideways into a peculiar toe-pointing stance, knees bent, and knife ahead. As the knife armed Frenchman came on, blade fisted at shoulder level jaws agape in a silent snarl, Caraway back-stepped twice as if aligning himself.

  Caraway's leading foot slid ahead, and his body followed in a long extended lunge—led by his own sharp blade. Caraway's knife thocked home, buried to its hilt squarely in the charging Frenchman's chest, and Caraway was away, leaving the knife, gaining maneuvering room, drawing his second blade.