"Should we warn Tom? He is one of us."
"Warn him? Bejasus, I've been waitin' years to see something like this." He chucked, "Wonder what Tom's got left to bet?"
Pollop struggled himself calm. "A fair man would give the loser another shot." A man groaned, "Like you would, Tom?"
"Yeah, like I would. Nobody here can claim I ain't willing to shoot anytime." He had them there.
Murphy looked nervous and began to hedge. "Well, I don't know. I wouldn't want to risk everything. I mean, what would we bet?"
Pollop's glare was killing mad. Certain that only bad luck had defeated him, he hungered to get even. Pollop fumbled through his pouch. "I've got a dollar and a half cash and I'll put up my horse."
Murphy's hands were shaking as if palsied and his eyes blinked rapidly and darted nervously about. "Well, I don't really want a horse."
Pollop snorted. "Everybody wants a horse stranger-boy. My Ned is worth twenty dollars."
A man hooted derisively. "Make him include saddle and bridle for that price, Murphy."
Pollop became cold, settling himself for shooting. "Horse gear included, Murphy, if you're man enough."
Murphy said, "Well, I suppose . . ."
Pollop interrupted, "Then it's a match. My horse at twenty and my dollar and a half against your equal money."
"Well, all right. But I won't shoot anymore after this."
Pollop said coldly, "After I win this one we ought to have a third to see who's best." He laughed sneeringly, "If you win I'll be done anyway, but don't expect it, stranger-boy. Last time you had luck. It won't happen twice."
Murphy seemed to gather himself. "That is not very friendly, Tom Pollop."
"Too bad, boy, I'm not feeling friendly. Let's get at it."
The old men were laying small bets with their friends. "Murphy is going to whip him bad this time. He's played old Tom like a gill-hooked trout. Tom should of kept quiet and acted decent. I figure Murphy's irritated."
Murphy's rifle cracked first. He reloaded swiftly with a suddenly smooth and efficient precision. His second shot followed on the heels of Pollop's first, and a spectator exclaimed, "He's goin' right at it."
The hits were announced. "Pollop two fingers out. Murphy, one shot touching the other a finger low."
The crowd roared. The shooting was phenomenal. Unless he threw the last shot wild, Murphy would surely win.
Tim was already back at the line. He caught Pollop's sullen gaze. "No coughing, or dirt kicking, Pollop, I won't let it go by again."
Without waiting, Murphy's rifle came up and fired as it touched his shoulder. Tim turned away not bothering to watch Tom Pollop shoot.
Again a whoop of excitement. "Murphy's only a finger wide of his first two. Pollop three fingers high."
Pollop was already licked. He did not waste a third shot. Men were pounding Murphy's back. Tim picked out a boy and handed him two pennies. "Bring my horse up, will you?"
Pollop was raging, but had no recourse. He snatched his saddlebags. "These don't go with it." Tim did not even look over.
A man asked, "Where do you come from, Murphy? We ain't ever had shootin' like that around here."
"Oh, north of here a bit, up in Sherman's Valley."
"Hey, you know Rob Shatto? He's from up there."
"We are friends."
Another stated, "You weren't raised up there. You don't talk like the rest of us."
"No, I had an English tutor. A man named Caraway. Have you heard of him?" They had not.
"Well, you're a hell of a shot with that swivel gun, Tim Murphy. I'm Irish myself. Together we could whip 'em all."
Good-hearted disdain rose. Tim judged the Irishman was not the best shot around.
Pollop's horse was worth the money. A draft animal, saddled for riding, its pace would be a steady plod, but the horse looked young and strong. Tim was pleased to have it.
Pollop had disappeared, and as Tim prepared to ride out an old timer drew him aside. "You did that real well, son. I seen it comin' and won a little on you." He hee-heed to himself.
"Thing is, Tom Pollop is a mean man. It might not be above him to be laid out in the brush waitin' for you to pass. Probably isn't, but you pretty well cleaned him out and made him look foolish. I'd go round any open places if I was you. Tom jest might risk a shot from way out, and he can shoot, don't forget."
Tim said, "Thank you friend, I'll take precautions."
Instead of riding out, Tim waited until dark, visiting fires and talking with other shooters and spectators. Then he just slipped away, leading the horse along a narrow trace, avoiding the pike and any ambushes that might lie along it. Carrying his winnings, Tim Murphy could be a welcome target for others besides the twice-whipped Tom Pollop.
— — —
Tim and Francis Ellis sat together on the porch overlooking the Susquehanna's broad sweep. Tim said, "I've got forty dollars cash and the horse to buy into your place, Francis. If you are willing, I'll pay in that way. When I get ahead a few dollars I'll bring them by. You use them as you think best. When you figure I am half owner you can let me know and we will strike another deal."
Ellis was highly pleased. With cash many things became possible. Without it, only barter could be handled, and a man did not gain much swapping with other farmers.
Tim said, "Quehana told me we should bring grain to his distillery. He will make it into whiskey. He takes half for doing the distilling and will buy our half if we want to sell. He says we would do a lot better to save up our share until we have a load, then float it all the way to Baltimore. Quehana says whiskey brings good money there or in Philadelphia."
Ellis nodded, "We can do a little of that, but not much until I get more ground planted. Until the crop gets bigger we can't do much more than keep the hogs fed."
Tim smiled. "I'd like to say that I'll be coming regular with a lot of money, but it won't be that way. I laid in wait for this one, but big money is rare. Mostly I'll be shooting for a few dollars. When winter sets in there won't be any shooting."
"You should come here for the winter, Tim. This is your place now. It would please your mother and the rest of us." Ellis smiled, "Including Dancer, of course."
Tim flushed, "I guess I am pretty plain in my feelings toward Dancer, Francis."
The man laughed, "Plain enough, Tim, and we are pleased—for both of you."
Tim was serious, "I can't do more than court, Francis. Quehana says a man should have more than just himself to offer a woman. I think he is right.
Ellis nodded, "A man should feel that way, but you have something, Tim. You have what we have. You are family, do not forget that."
They spoke of other things. Francis asked, "I have never understood why Rob Shatto is called Quehana by you and a few others. What is the story?"
"Well, when Rob was a boy he lived with Delawares, about where his house is now. The Indian he lived with was a flint arrowhead maker. Seems that a famous warrior came for points and Rob gave him some he had made. The warrior had unusual success with them and gave Rob the name Quehana, or Arrowmaker, in the mixed up language he used. Rob started making iron points, and Indians came from all over to trade for them.
"That is how it started. Then, in the different Indian wars, Quehana killed all those who attacked him. His name is known beyond the Iroquois. Even the Huron know of him. Quehana is more famous among the tribes than Rob Shatto is among whites."
"You are lucky to have such a friend, Tim."
"You are right, Francis, and it is strange how it came about. No one mentions the tear under my eye anymore, but it let me be noticed, and by who? Blue Moccasin, no less. James Cummens, a half Indian, who owns a fourth of Philadelphia and who pointed me to Quehana.
"It has been a strange trail, Francis, and it was Rob who knew about you and my mother."
It was a strange trail, and Tim had to wonder if it would continue to twist and wind as it had so far.
Chapter 12
A Plan
/> Late in the fall of the second year Tim Murphy rode into Rob Shatto's valley. Rain threatened and he hurried to get the horse and himself under cover.
The first drops pattered among the trees as Rob held his door wide for Tim's entrance.
"You timed that just right, neighbor. It's going to get real wet out there."
"We woodsmen know how to do it, Quehana."
Rob snorted, "Then show me the secret. I always get caught a mile out."
When they were comfortably settled and had listened to the downpour drum on the roof, Rob asked, "So, how was the shooting?"
Tim was emphatic. "Good! I believe more men than ever are sport shooting."
"That should mean more poor shooters trying their hands."
Tim laughed, "Exactly right, but that does not mean I can take their money." He sighed, "Fact is, Rob, I'm getting too well known. The word has been passed to look out for a double gun shooter with a tear under his eye."
Rob nodded understanding. "Didn't take long to get around, did it? Natural enough, of course. Men talk shooting, and your name and description gets passed. How do you handle it?"
"Well, sometimes I only get a match or two. It's often best if I just stand around looking as if I knew something nobody else did. After a bit someone will say, 'Been hearing you can shoot. Want to try for a dollar?' I do, and if the man can't shoot too well I make the match close, leaving him a little dignity and maybe luring another into shooting.
"I end up shooting a lot of fifty cent matches, but they can add up."
"Lose often, Tim?"
"Oh, once in awhile. I've run into three men I couldn't plan on beating. With them it could go either way. Down in the Carolinas I found a skinny character named Shep Laird that I lost to every time—unless the range got real long. Man reminded me of Caraway. Looked too thin to hold his gun up, but he just didn't miss." Tim chuckled, "Lucky for me it was a poor place, and the bets stayed small.
Rob said, "Then there's the bad days. I've had times I couldn't have hit a cabin wall from inside the building."
"Yes, I have had them. No explanation, just that nothing seems to go right. Trouble is, I'm usually too dumb to quit and shoot another day. Before I get smart I've lost money."
"Next year will be tougher. Everybody will know you."
"It's already hard enough. I don't find chances like that Tom Pollop I took the first year."
"That story has stayed alive, Tim. Every once in awhile somebody tells about Tim Murphy making a fool out of Tom Pollop. One man claimed you won Pollop's wife."
"Hope that version doesn't reach Dancer. Might not set too well."
"How is everybody at your place? I haven't been upriver all summer."
"Doing well. Francis opened new fields last spring and took on a hired boy. He might have corn for distilling this year."
"We can handle it. The corn wasn't too good last spring, and a few others are making their own whiskey. Will Miller's taken to going out and getting people's corn and delivering their whiskey. Farmers like that. Saves 'em days lost from the fields.
"Will's talkin' of making our own kegs and of putting whiskey up in crock bottles. He says they do it that way in Europe."
Tim questioned, "What are all those kegs dangling from ropes down by the still?"
Rob laughed, "Another of Will's schemes. Seems they're using whiskey tasters down in the cities. Guess some of the whiskey comin' in is watered or peppered. Less than the best, you could say.
"Will is aging our stuff. Whiskey ages best in a keg that's charred on the inside, and the motion of the boat or raft seems to help, too. So Will hangs nearly full kegs, and every time he goes by he gives 'em a swing. Will says he gets the best prices offered."
"Will is clever."
"Yup, he is. Another thing he's doing is branding our kegs with our arrowhead mark. Tasters and buyers know the mark and look for it."
"Waugh!" Tim raised his hand in Indian greeting. "The sign of Quehana is honored."
Rob laughed, "Honored with real money. Helps keep the wolves from howling too close to the lodge."
Tim changed the subject. "Dancer and I plan on marrying in the spring, Rob."
"Expected you would. Why wait till then? There's a long and cold winter ahead, and snuggling would be nice."
Tim appeared serious. "I'm waiting because there is something I have to do first." He added, "In fact, that is part of the reason I came by."
Rob waited him out.
"I feel the need to go north, to see my Huron family. They may need help, Rob. Indians aren't doing well around here or anywhere I have traveled. Although I'll never go back to them, I still feel . . . well, they raised me, and I care for them."
Rob raised a palm in understanding and then added hand talk to his words. "I know the feeling, Tim. I’ve watched the Delaware fall from a proud people to stragglers unwelcome in their own land. My heart aches for them. You should go."
Tim nodded, "I will go as soon as the weather warms." He hunched his shoulders a little. "The fact is, I would like you to come with me."
Tim was aware that Becky Shatto's clattering ceased, and Flat stopped her work to turn and listen.
Rob said, "Well now, that's a long journey, Tim. I've never visited that country."
Tim said, "It is a long way, and I would like your company."
Becky came to stand behind Rob, a hand resting on his shoulder. The trip he spoke of would take them away for many weeks, and there was always danger in the deep forest.
Rob felt Becky's concern and patted her hand reassuringly, then reinforced it by enveloping her fingers within his giant paw. He said again, "That's a long hike, Tim."
Tim rushed ahead. "We will ride, Rob, or we can take ship up the Hudson and then go west and north or . . ."
Rob held up a restraining hand. "Hold on Tim. I don't need that kind of convincing. There are other things to consider. While seeing that country is appealing, I've got other duties and obligations around here." He grinned, "Anyway, it'll be a chore talking Becky into the idea." Flat harrumphed and went back to work. Becky removed her hand from Rob's, stroked his braided hair affectionately and stepped away.
Rob said, "I don't think much of going way over to the Hudson. Too far off the route. Better to go up the Susquehanna. If we went, we'd likely cross the whole Iroquois Nation. We'd want to be sure they were feeling peaceable.
"North of Esther's Town the traveling paths should be good all the way to Kanadasega. After that, I wouldn't be sure. You any idea where your family lodge would be located?"
"I would look in the old places between the lakes. Charlie Pierre may still hunt for Fort Niagara."
"It has been a long time. William Johnson's in his grave. Things change, Tim."
"Someone will know."
"Yep, we can find your father's lodge. All I'm saying is that the world is different. You've been away, how long? Six years maybe? A lot will have changed."
"That is part of the reason I've got to go back. They are my family, Rob. Swift Wing is my mother. All I learned until Caraway appeared came from Charlie Pierre, and . . . " Tim sat silent for a moment. "They may wonder what happened to their son."
Rob did not agree to the trip, but it was clear he was interested. When Rob was outside, Tim spoke to Becky.
"More than two years ago, when the British let me go, I expected to just walk back to Niagara, but I know now that the idea was foolish. The distance is too great and the risks too many. I have been too long out of the deep forests. Without Rob I doubt I should try, but still, I feel that I must."
Becky sighed and sat at her table, motioning Tim to a seat opposite. "Tim, my Rob could roam the most hostile land as long as he wished and return unharmed. He can succeed at tasks others dare not attempt. I have seen this many times.
"Once, in our second Indian war—the one they claim was Pontiac's—five Shawnee warriors caught me out alone. They took me captive and traveled swiftly north. I knew Rob would search, but in which di
rection? How could he find me, and if the Lord helped him and he did stumble onto our tracks, what could he do against five hostile savages?
"Well, Rob found our trail. He decided where the Shawnee would go, and he came after us in an incredible run. On the first night, when I supposed he would still be expecting me to come in the door, he struck our camp like an entire war party."
Becky's eyes shown and her hands clasped in remembered excitement. "Rob was into the Shawnee like a dozen panthers. The warriors were like children compared to Quehana's strength. Two he shot dead, and two he tomahawked. The fifth escaped wounded, running madly down the mountain as if a devil chased him."
Again Becky paused to remember. "How long ago that seems, but only a hand of years have passed."
Tim smiled at Becky's comfortable use of the Indian way of measuring with fingers.
Becky continued, "I tell you this so that you know that you have chosen the right companion. If Rob chooses to go with you, your journey will succeed."
She shrugged, smiling a little. "Will he accompany you? Perhaps, he is clearly tempted."
Becky laid her hand on Tim's arm. "Rob Shatto is a bit like the wolf, Tim. He is free and independent, but one to whom the rest of us cling. And like the wolf he must not be penned or he would sicken and become less."
She laughed a little shortly. "If I objected, Rob would not go with you. I know that to be true, as I know I would be asking for my own benefit, not his. He would stay, and no one would see a difference, but I would know that the wolf had been chained. I would not like that.
"Women can soften their men, Tim. You can surely feel the tug of Dancer's wishes and needs turning and changing the directions you take. Isn't that so?" Tim grinned ruefully, bobbing his head in agreement.
"Some women reel their men in, and more than a few break their men's spirit. A woman must be careful not to destroy the very things she admired in the man she chose." Becky laughed and patted Tim's arm affectionately. " I will warn Dancer and explain all this to her before you marry, Tim."
They laughed together before Becky resumed. "I am running on like this so that you will understand that while I will always wish that Rob would stay home, I recognize that he will not, and for me to force him to stay close would be a mistake.
Tim Murphy, Rifleman Page 13
