They were gathered beneath an immense walnut tree. Martha Baskins Ellis stood facing her son, hands clasped as in prayer. Tears lay on her cheeks and Tim felt her eyes search him for recognition. He came close, where the teardrop mark under his eye was plain, and her gasp of recognition was both pain and thankfulness. She held her arms wide, and knowing he should, Tim stepped into them.
He was right; his mother did smell of fresh bread, also lye soap, and a hint of pine. She held him close, rocking a little saying over and over, "William, William, my tiny William."
Tim felt little. He understood the emotions, but he remembered nothing. Swift Wing was the mother he knew. He could accept the facts, but they changed nothing in his heart. He was glad when they sat down to talk.
Children were summoned so that all could hear. The children of Martha and Francis were too young to understand, but Francis Ellis's first family listened raptly. Seeing Dancer Ellis hanging on every word, eyes alight, lips parted in excitement, Tim wished his part did not sound so wild and woodsy. He tried to speak as Caraway would have, clear with just a bit of detachment.
The Ellises knew their stepmother's story, but with William the missing baby sitting among them it was all new and thrilling.
She told of the terrible times and the plan to harvest the corn under the very noses of the hostiles. For Tim the tale was new and he could feel the fears and tensions. Having experienced Caraway's coldly maniacal execution of the three Frenchmen he knew firsthand the terror of deadly combat.
Martha said, "They left me alone to bury poor dead William with his head all crushed in. For that single moment I could not stand it. I ran. I fled leaving my two children, caring nothing except to get far away from that horrible scene. I ran to the Juniata River and got across. Then I ran until I could only stagger. Even then I kept going, because I knew they would search for me.
"I suppose I was out of my head because I thought only of escaping, not at all of the two innocents I had left behind. When I came to my senses I could not believe I had deserted my own children. I cursed myself for it, and have done so ever since. To abandon one's own children to save one's self . . . what could be worse? All I can say is that I did not know what I had done until it was too late. I could not even have found my way back to our land.
"Eventually, I came onto a trail, which took me to a traveled path. At every turning I expected to meet war parties, but none appeared. At last I came again to the Susquehanna and followed it south. Across from Harris's Ferry I met a group en route to Carlisle. They took me in and delivered me safely to good people in that small village."
"Armed men went to our farm. They buried William and hid the spot because Indians have been known to turn out bodies. Those who buried William moved on, and I have never found his grave. Of course the children were gone and most believed them dead. I hoped, but until this moment that is all I had."
Francis Ellis comforted his wife. Tim did not know what to do. He had no feeling that the tragic story had anything to do with him, though his mind told him it did. Rob Shatto eased the moment with a question.
"How many Indians were there?"
"I saw only two squaws and three men, but John Mclean said a dozen or more chased him."
"And they were interested in the harvest?"
"Yes, they made me help pick the corn. One man, barely more than a boy really, carried it to their canoes and our boat."
"Can you remember any markings or anything distinctive about the Indians?"
"No, I was numb with grief, and I do not know anything about their decorations. I do not remember their faces as painted, and I have been told the lack of paint is unusual."
"And they just leaped from cover and killed William?"
"Yes, I saw them first when they were in the corn. I screamed and William ran for his gun. He reached it, but it had gotten wet fording the river. William had intended drawing the charge and reloading, but we were all so busy . . . the gun did not fire, and the young Indian smashed poor William's head in with a club."
There was momentary silence before Martha added, "One Indian was an older man who made belching sounds to amuse the children. He appeared to be the leader."
"Belching sounds?" Rob's forehead knitted. "There was a Seneca called The Belcher. Blue Moccasin could imitate him. Made all kinds of strange noises. I never met him, but his village was upriver somewhere. I wonder if it could have been Belcher that came down on you?"
"It was the belching one's bag that hung around my neck. It was fortunate he gave it to me to carry. There was food in it. Enough to keep me going until I found whites. But, everyone said the pouch was Shawnee."
Rob did not pursue it, and the time had come for Tim to tell his story. He did, dry-eyed because he felt no personal sadness.
To his listeners, his tale sounded adventurous and exciting. His time with Caraway learning English and reading specially interested them.
"You speak beautifully, William, better than any of us. And you can read? I teach the children what I can, but it is difficult."
Francis Ellis chuckled, "Your mother's even got me ciphering out words and lines in the good book. She ought to open a school for reading."
Rob and Tim slept out, well away from the cabins. It was late before they sought their blankets, and no fire was considered.
Rob said, "Well Tim, what do you think of all this?" Before he could be answered, Rob went on. "You've found family, if you want it. You've got the straight story of what happened, you've even seen the ground. Must be both satisfying and confusing."
Tim frowned in the dark. "I don't know that I feel all that much. Seems as though Mrs. Ellis was talking about someone else." He chuckled a little. "It is good to learn that I am sixteen and was born in July. I've always wondered about that."
Rob was serious sounding. "You ought to call her mother, Tim, even if you don't feel anything. The woman's gone through terrible times, and it'd help her feel better about them."
"I can do that, Rob. Saying mother in English doesn't have the impact for me the way the Huron word does."
"What'll you stick with, Tim or William?"
"I like Tim. It is closer to Tear, and I still like that best."
"I'll tell you something else you like. That's that girl called Dancer. Couldn't take your eyes off her."
"Isn't she something, Rob?" Tim knew no embarrassment. "I wonder how she got her name? I'll bet her hair is handsome when it's let down."
A true Indian, Rob thought. Shikee had been the same way. Unlike white boys who hid their feelings and made idiots of themselves, young braves tended to step up and say their pieces. Oh, they did act dumb in front of their women sometimes, but with other men they were able to talk about it. White youths remained tongue-tied forever.
Rob said, "Yep, Dancer has winsome ways. The locals will be layin' gifts outside her lodge." He wondered if Dancer might help Tim Murphy choose his white side. Rob guessed they should spend another full day at Ellis's.
Martha Ellis said, "Oh, Rob, William is a fine, boy." She gazed across to where Tim and Francis Ellis were discussing the merits of an axe they should have been using. "He looks like his father, and I see similar gestures in the way he stands."
"Yep, he is turning out all right."
"What will he do, Rob? Francis intends offering him a place with us."
"That is generous of your husband. If Tim accepted he would become important to your family." Rob smiled, "You've noticed that he has an eye for Dancer."
"And Dancer has noticed as well. She spent extra time preening this morning."
Martha said, "He called me 'mother' today."
"He does not doubt the story."
"Does he mind that I call him William? His features are hard to read."
"That's the Indian raising. He is not yet easy among you, but it will come. Then, he will be like other young men. No, he does not mind that you choose William, but he will likely remain Tim Murphy. It's the name he is used to."
> "How strange to have a son with an Irish name. We are Scots and so was his father."
"Scotch-Irish?"
"Yes, as with most Scots who come to America, we were long residents of Northern Ireland. My father's father moved there, and William's family had lived in Ireland nearly as long. But, we did not really belong, and times were nearly impossible. America seemed a dream come true, and except for the Indians, it has been."
"You have survived two Indian wars, Martha. We can hope there will be no more."
"Do you believe that possible, Rob? Could the wars really be over?"
Rob was reluctant to answer, but did his best. "Most believe it so, but I am not so sure. North of us lies the greatest Indian confederacy of all, the Iroquois. Will they bow to our rule, will they forever ignore the encroachments and insults of whites? If not, these valleys will again suffer the tomahawk and scalping knife.
"I would say this, Martha, my guns stay ready and the doors are barred at night. I am a day's march safer than you are here at the Half Falls. If war talk ever becomes loud or serious, do not wait, leave immediately for Fort Hunter. I need not remind you to leave the crops and not to return for them."
It was frightening talk, and Rob turned her mind from it. "What I would like to know is why half the women in these hills appear to be named Martha? Beside you, there is Martha Elan, Jack's wife, and even another Martha over at Robinson's Fort."
She laughed, delighted by the lighter conversation. "Well, Martha is biblical, and we Scots like the sound of it. My youngest is also Martha, and there is one just west of us a few valleys. We Marthas follow our men, I suppose, and you can leave it to a Scotsman to push to the very edge of things."
"How did Dancer get named? Tim will be aching to know."
"As I understand it, when she was a babe her tiny legs wiggled all the time. Francis claimed she was a dancer, and the name became hers."
"It is a catching name."
"It seems to have captured William."
Francis Ellis said, "You could make a place here, Tim. I'll keep calling you Tim figuring you prefer it."
"Thank you, Mister Ellis, I am used to it."
"You must call me Francis, or it will never be equal between us."
"Thank you again. Caraway taught me to use Mister to all older than myself, except himself for some reason."
"It is a fine courtesy, but for your mother's sake, as well as plain good sense, we must become friends. Now, what do you think of staying on with us? It is not an uneven offer, Tim. Strong arms are always welcome, and Rob Shatto claims you are an outstanding hunter."
"Not quite, Francis. Rob said I could shoot, and I can, but I am not as good in the woods as I should be. I expect to become better."
"Well, you are bound to be twice the hunter I am. Unless the deer is very close and willing to stand stock still, I'm not apt to hit him.
"But, back to the subject. How would you feel about staying on with us?"
Tim's eyes strayed to Dancer's trim form. "It is a kind offer, Francis, and I won't say no, but for the next season or two I'll be with Quehana having a rifle made and learning about things I should already know.
"I would like to come by when I can." He sounded boyish in adding, "I might be able to bring meat some of the times."
Francis Ellis saw where Tim's eyes turned and let his mind consider. Dancer was young and so was the boy, but that was usual on the frontier. People had to get started early. Ripping farms and livelihoods from the forest was brutally hard. All hands were needed, and children should be borne early while wives were young and strong. Tim Murphy? His prospects were as good as any others Ellis could think of. Much would depend on how the next year or so went. Francis would not let Dancer go to some woods runner. That was no life for any woman.
Ellis said, "We'll leave it like that, Tim. You decide what you would like to do. Shatto is a good example to follow. Don't know how he does it. Man lives like a lord but never follows a plow. He's as famous as anybody we know, but he is still young."
The man laughed, "Find out his secret and pass it along to me, Tim. I'd like living the way he does."
On their way home, Tim spoke about Francis Ellis wishing to know Quehana's secret.
"Oh, it's no special skill, Tim. Facts are I got in here at the best time. I had the smithing skills to make iron arrowheads, and due to The Warrior, word got around and Indians came from all over to trade for them. A lot of that trade was in French, Spanish and English coins. All of a sudden I had cash money when no one else did. I tried to use it wisely.
"Now, I live off other men's sweat, or at least that's a big part of it. Distilling whiskey brings money and trade. Hired men working on shares do the farming and care for livestock. I do the scouting and hunting. What else is needed?
"Life's turned out good, Tim, and you could do the same, if you put your mind to it."
Hiking along behind Rob, Tim let his imaginings range. He was inwardly embarrassed at how quickly his interests had been turned. The Huron and even Caraway were distant considerations. He thought of land, perhaps adjacent to Francis and Martha Ellis. He imagined a big cabin with a porch overlooking the river. And . . . his face flushed and his body heated, Dancer Ellis sharing it with him.
How? Maybe there was a way. All of the frontier was short of money. Trade was in barter or notes of credit. Except . . . except that men came up with coins for gambling and liquor buying. Some of that gambling, the most popular of all really, was shooting.
If he had a rifle and a few coins to get started, mightn't he take on the local shooters, moving place to place, letting them try the stranger-boy Tim Murphy, who claimed he could wipe their noses?
He could live small and save hard. Coins could grow swiftly, he thought. Caraway had believed it could be done way back when he was too small to shoot without a rest.
First he would get a gun, the right gun, and he had ideas about that. He had things to learn from Rob Shatto. More than he suspected probably, but he would learn them. Then, maybe he would take to the pikes stopping at the inns and forts, finding the shooters and seeing what he could do.
The miles fled beneath his dreaming, and the new moccasins were feeling better every hour. For the first time he had a real set of goals. He figured he knew how and had what it would take. By spring he might . . .
Chapter 10
Weapons
Rob said, "I can't see why you would want a two barreled gun."
Tim said, "I like the balance of Jack's and I like the idea of having that second shot."
"You expecting to take on a war party? The idea in shooting is to put your first bullet in the right place. A double gun can make you careless; you always think you have another shot. Anyway, they look like clubs."
Elan said, "Don't listen to him, Tim. He's gotten so used to draggin' that smoke pole through the brush that he can't understand a new invention like a swivel gun."
"New? Some idiot strapped two muskets together and announced how smart he was the first day they were invented. Seems to me a double gun just gives you a second charge to load every time you go out and an extra charge to pull when you get home."
"You don't have to load the second barrel." Elan was adamant.
"You ever go out with an empty barrel, Jack? The answer is no. If you did, the rare time you'd want it, it'd be empty."
Tim smiled, "But the rare time he wanted it, it would be there. How about that?"
Elan said, "It's like that two barreled pistol you lug around, why not a one barrel?"
"Different use, Jack. The pistol's for in close work where there's not time for reloading."
Elan said, "I'm for taking Tim over to see my father-in-law."
"If he's set on a two barrel, John Shell is the man to have build it, if he'll do the job. He's quit the business, hasn't he, Jack?"
"More or less. Says he can't see good enough, but if we ask he'll do the job."
Rob said, "We can make a trip of it. Martha might want to c
ome. We'll take horses."
"God, I hate horse riding."
"So do I, but it's quicker and your Martha can see her folks."
Elan grumbled on. "Horse riding ain't quicker unless there's a real road."
"Well, it's more restful. Hell, Jack, most people would pay to ride horses."
"That's ‘cause they don't know how to run the woods."
"Tell you what, we'll ride and you can trot alongside."
"Not a chance, Shatto. You'd half kill the animals just to make me sweat a little."
Including Martha Elan required an additional pack animal. There were gifts for her parents and bags of things a woman claimed were needed. They traveled no slower, the rough trails and roads allowed only walking. Jack tried walking and leading his mount, but the animal did not cooperate.
"Let's eat this beast for supper, Rob."
"Just ride him, Jack. God, you make work out of just sitting."
"My spine's getting jammed from bouncing. I'll be an inch shorter by tonight."
"A walking horse doesn't bounce, Jack."
"Skin's chafing on my thighs."
"Good, I hope you suffer."
The John Shell place lay north of the Blue Mountain and east of the Susquehanna. A small farmer with close neighbors, John Shell had the usual flocks and herds. Like most farms his crops were subsistence and rarely brought in cash. Money came from the gunsmithing, and advancing years had trimmed Shell's work to nearly nothing.
After all the greetings the men retired to the shop building. A great crane of a man with hands too large even for his height, Shell chose a seat on a work stool.
Elan made quick work of their interest.
Tim Murphy, Rifleman Page 11
