"I suppose we out here are much like our Indian neighbors. The braves hunt and defend the lodge, while the women cook and care. Neither is more important, and all must respect the other's place and duties.
"So, Rob may wish to go to Niagara with you. If he so chooses, he will have my blessing."
Becky rose and laughed again, this time herself rueful. "Of course, Tim, if he decides against going I won't be all that disappointed either."
Chapter 13
Niagara
They were late starting their journey. Corn planting ate into the spring, a wet spring that bogged the fields and delayed plowing.
When they met, Rob Shatto was contemptuous. "Whites should plant like Indians. The squaws punch a hole using a sharpened stick, drop in a few seeds and a piece of fish, and stomp it shut with their heel. Corn comes up fast and strong."
"Your planters plow the ground, Rob."
"Yep, they do. My people don't listen either."
The rivers rose, and the forest dripped. It was not a propitious time to travel. The wedding was put off until the groom returned from retouching his Indian side.
In June the skies cleared, and a warm sun appeared, hungry to make up for lost time. Rob Shatto arrived at the Ellis farm ready to go.
Shatto's equipment was carried in a compact deerskin backpack and his possibles pouch that lay on a hip. Unlike some, Rob's longrifle did not wear a leather sling for carrying. Shatto's gun was always in a hand.
Tim Murphy supplied their horses and tried to lean his own possessions into a Shatto-like pack. Too long had he been away from the deep woods. He would use their journey to relearn.
Traveling with the frontiersman was itself a revelation. When he had wandered with Caraway, they had more or less walked along, conversing, or just as often dreaming the hours away.
Not Rob Shatto. His head and eyes turned constantly, searching the black forests, looking for . . . Tim was not sure.
Rob was off his horse repeatedly, studying sign along the broad traveling path. He knelt at old fires, fingering ashes and touching imprints.
"Delaware camped here, Tim, maybe two days past. Small family, traveling light, going hungry too often."
"You sure of all that?" Tim saw little sign.
Shatto was mildly surprised at Murphy's doubt. "Easy enough, fire's not fresh but it hasn't seen more than a night or two of dew. Tracks are Delaware moccasin, man, woman, three smaller. Look at what was left behind. Rabbit and a snake. Marrow cracked out of the rabbit bones. People with full bellies don't do that."
Tim was convinced. "I wonder where they are going?"
"Up to Buffalo Town . . . along the Buffalo Creek."
"Now how do you know that?"
"Cause there's Delaware there, and these people need some help. Had a hard winter most likely."
Shatto also walked a lot. He claimed the horses held them back. Rob scouted off the trail now and then, looking for what . . . again Tim was not sure.
They camped early and moved in the dark to another sleeping place. Tim asked, "You expecting hostiles, Rob? I never saw anyone do all this working and worrying."
"Not hostiles, Tim, but maybe someone that would like a pair of rifles and whatever else we've got."
Rob paused for a moment thinking about it. "Once when the tribes were in place and their societies were strong, a man did not worry about getting tomahawked while he slept. Honor was big back then, and vengeance for a foul deed could be swift. A man showing up with another's red blanket was noticed. A thief couldn't get away with much. We're not talking about war, of course. That was different.
"We whites ripped that sort of mutual respect—agreement—call it what you will, into tatters. We marked off ground we liked and tended to shoot anyone we didn't want on it. Indians, that is, not each other too often.
"Well, Indians learned. Now it's often take it if you can. Of course a traveler might wander a lifetime and never get set upon. Most get by that way, but suppose you're unlucky just one time? Hell, no one'd know what happened to Rob Shatto and Tim Murphy."
They did it Shatto's way, and Tim learned from it.
Their travel was not lonely. At Tioga they presented themselves for permission to cross the lands of the Iroquois, and the arrival of the mighty Quehana called for counseling and celebration.
Tioga was Seneca, and Rob spoke their language. In meeting, the subjects were weather, deer populations, and the value of furs to white traders. They spoke of the English Fathers and treaties under consideration. Stories were told of local and distant happenings. Rob translated for Tim Murphy's benefit.
Tim was comfortable at the fire circle. The smells were good, and the gestures and postures were right. Old men were closely listened to, for their experience was greatest. The younger were vigorous in speech, certain of their information, and anxious to be considered. All were heard with respect.
There was nothing comparable in white society. There, men bellowed and thumped tables. Most drank and the loudest received the attention. Not as good, Tim believed.
Quehana's words were closely listened to. Quehana was one of the honored names. Present were hunters who had journeyed to the Little Buffalo to trade for Quehana's magical arrowpoints, and all knew of his naming by The Warrior—whose might in battle had never been approached.
The Warrior! A counselor spoke of him.
"Without The Warrior there is emptiness in the heart of the Seneca, Quehana. There can never be another like him. Truly, he may have been the son of the Great Spirit."
There was approval.
Quehana said, "The Shawnee woods rat, Two Nose, found The Warrior dead in a magical grove where there was no sound. The Warrior bore no wounds. It appeared that the Sky Father had called his son home." Heads nodded for all knew the story and were prepared to enjoy it again.
"Two Nose, the rat, so named because Quehana's hatchet had split his face, took the skin of the noble Warrior and wore it as his sign of power.
"Two Nose turned his hatred against the lodge of Quehana coming with many warriors. Then the rifle of Quehana spoke many times, and the men of Two Nose became few.
"Like a rat, Two Nose hid in a thicket, but the squaw, Flat, also crouched there. When the squaw's knife entered his body, Two Nose showed himself, and Quehana's bullet killed him.
"With honor Quehana laid to rest the skin of The Warrior in a place known to him and to the Iroquois. Two Nose?" Rob shrugged in disdain. "Who can recall what was done with a rat."
The telling was satisfying. Stories of The Warrior were retold, and Tim Murphy found them too large to believe. Honored tales were always highly embellished, and most were polished until they little resembled the actual incident.
It was good to sit again among the people. Like coming home? No, Tim did not sense that irresistible draw. More like revisiting a favorite scene. Still, the Seneca of the Iroquois Nation were not his Huron. How, Murphy wondered, would it be there?
The days grew into weeks. They followed the great Indian traveling paths, choosing those heading closest to their direction. The primeval forest lay tight about them, its massive canopy closing overhead so that the sun rarely reached the forest floor. At times they paused within a sun shaft to enjoy the strike of heat on their shoulders, and to sniff air untainted by the musks and scents of the endless forests.
Rob asked, "Ever wonder how we know where we're going, Tim? No signs, no one to ask, can't see the sky or the night stars but rarely, an Englishman would be lost within a mile."
Tim gave it thought. "Well, we decide because it feels correct. Sun slant counts, lay of the ridges, bend of the trees, direction of wind, flow of the stream, certain growth on the tree trunks as well, lots of pointers, Rob."
"Yep, but how do we know we aren't too far west or east, or whatever? I've never been to Niagara, and you never came at it from this direction."
"Well, it just seems right."
"It does, doesn't it, and that's about the only explanation we're li
kely to find.
"I figure we've growed into it. An Indian's never seen more of a map than stick-scratchings in the dirt, but turn one loose anywhere, and he'll make it to where he wants to go. Some sort of instinct, I guess. Same as it takes geese and ducks south and back again each year."
"The army uses homing pigeons to get messages back and forth, Rob. I saw it done at Niagara. The officer told Caraway that pigeons didn't work as well here as in Europe. Too many hawks find straight flying pigeons an easy meal, he said."
"I heard about using pigeons. They could be fast, all right. Ever follow bees back to their honey tree, Tim?"
Tim had, and they talked about it. Later Rob said, "The interesting thing is we'll come out right at Fort Niagara, just like we're planning. Amazing, isn't it?"
Tim adjusted to Shatto's ways of doing. He took to walking, leading his animal, feeling strength and endurance grow in his legs. He read sign with increasing ease and saw game he would once have passed by.
The horses grew skinny on poor feed and long traveling. They left them at Kanadasega with intentions to recover them on their return.
Tim said, "I can't afford to lose two horses, Rob. I'm missing out on a whole shooting season as is."
Rob was unsympathetic. "A man can't have it all ways, Tim. You can't travel these miles without it costing.
"Anyway, I'm not a horse man. Before horses got so common the trails were smooth. Now they're all chewed up from iron shoes and covered with droppings you've got to keep stepping around."
Tim said, "I traveled almost this far before, but it was different going. The pikes further south could be rough, but there was shelter and feed along the way. You're right, Rob. This isn't natural horse country."
"I watched old General Braddock's column trying to get out to the forks of the Ohio. There were lots of horses. Officers rode, and horses pulled cannon. They had enough baggage for three armies, all hauled behind animals. Which meant other horses and mules had to pull wagons loaded with feed for all the beasts. Hell of a sight.
"French and Indians shot the English into rags. Soldiers fighting to see who'd get to ride a horse out of there. You'd think men'd learn, but they don't.
"Bouquet did better when he licked the tribes in '63 and '64, but damned if he didn't drag hundreds and hundreds of wagons along. Only good they did was to get the road chopped wider so's they could get through."
"Did you go on that campaign, Rob?"
"Nope, Braddock was too much for me. War would be bad enough with the best men as leaders. Fighting out front of the kind they appoint . . . well, I'll never do it again."
"You may have to, Rob. There's a lot of muttering about separating from England and going our own way. I heard it all through the settlements."
That subject made Rob stop. He leaned on his rifle and spoke seriously.
"I've heard that grumbling same as you. Talk like that starts like a gentle breeze, but it can swell into a regular windstorm. First thing you know people are yelling and shooting at each other.
"I don't see much sense in it. What would we gain? Our troubles and taxes come from just over the mountain not from England. Looks to me as if all we'd get for fighting is the right to pay our own government and provide for our own army.
"Anyhow, I'll not again go off to war. Indians rise, I'll fight 'em, but that's about it."
Tim did not comment, but he had listened to other arguments and was not so sure he agreed with Rob's reasoning.
By the time they reached the fields approaching the Niagara settlement they moved and thought as one. More than a little footsore, leaned, and toughened they had had enough of it. Hungry for outside contact, they sought out the first ordinary they encountered.
It was a mean structure of one low-ceilinged room. The tables were puncheon planks notched and pinned to log uprights driven into the dirt floor.
In summer heat, logs had been removed from the walls to allow air circulation. The additional light was welcome and allowed the stinking fat lamps to be snuffed.
A half-dozen heavy bodied men shared benches and a long table. Neither Tim nor Rob spared them more than a glance. Rob said he wanted a mug of ale or beer, whatever was being served, and Tim went to order it. Shatto chose a bench, leaned his rifle against the wall, and sat down with an audible sigh.
Wrinkling his nose against the ordinary's powerful stench, Tim ordered tankards of ale. A slightly villainous looking owner wordlessly filled the order and accepted Tim's coins, holding them to the light for careful inspection.
Tim's exacting English and educated phrasing initiated snickering at the long table, but Tim was used to it, and paid no attention. He had already judged the visible weaponry and saw no rifled guns. Even if he had wished, there would be no match shooting here.
It seemed strange that the longrifle did not gain popularity in the north. From its founding place in and around Lancaster, Pennsylvania the rifle's design and popularity was exploding through the mountains to the south and west. Before Tim had been exchanged, Caraway's long gun had been the only Pennsylvania-type rifle to be found. Likely little had changed since then.
Caraway, would he still be around? Soon they could know. How fine it would be to see his old teacher.
A whiskey heavy voice said, "We don't like Injuns in our drinkin' place, boy."
Tim Murphy no longer considered himself a boy, but the voice seemed directed at him. He turned, confused by the words, hackles raised at the tone.
The speaker was one of the six loungers. A short, thick man wearing a stained and burned leather apron over heavy work clothes, probably a farrier or one's helper, Tim decided.
The man's friends urged him on with sly looks and a nudge in the ribs. "I'm talkin' to you, edjicated-boy. We don't allow Injuns in our drinkin' place."
Good God, they meant Rob! Thoroughly taken aback Tim was slow with his answer.
"Now you hustle him out of here a'fore me and my friends take his scalp for hangin' over a door." The farrier hauled out a butcher knife of intimidating length.
Anger rose like a wave in Tim Murphy. His own knife came free, and he dropped naturally into Caraways' fencing stance watching the speaker's smirk turn unsure. Before he could speak, the devil himself appeared among them.
The shriek came from Rob Shatto's direction. Its maniacal savagery froze movement, but the crash of Shatto's overturned bench swung their eyes.
All saw the tomahawk's flight. From a side-armed throw its flashing blade spun once and thudded solidly into the logs only inches from the threatener's head. Like a demon the huge leathered figure was past his table, a scalping knife clenched in a mighty fist, with the awful cry seeming to rise to an even more gut freezing intensity.
Men dove and scrambled, one fell and was trampled. At the door they wedged an interminable instant before bursting through and into full flight.
All but one. Rob Shatto had the farrier by the hair. Savagely he forced back the head until the throat was exposed. The knife poised in terrible hesitation, then slashed downward across the stretched scalp, and Shatto stepped free holding aloft the farrier's greasy hair.
Quehana's scalping cry again shook the listeners. Like a bug the farrier scrabbled to crawl away. Seeming lost in his scalping screech Shatto appeared to notice his escape too late, and with his own panicked shriek the farrier toppled through the doorway. Screaming like a woman, hand clutching his skull, the farrier fled.
Appalled, Tim Murphy stood rooted. The keeper appeared nailed in place, eyes bugged, jaw agape.
Then Quehana turned, and his eyes were alight with laughter. He allowed the severed hair to fall free, and there was no scalp. Quehana had only shortened the farrier's hair.
Trying to recover, Tim said, "My God, Rob, you scared away years of my life. I've never heard such a sound." In his mind, Murphy compared the spine-freezing shriek to Caraway's maddened keening. Shatto's was a dozen times more terrifying.
The ordinary's keeper slugged his own whiskey before spe
aking. "Lord a'mercy, Mister, don't ever make that noise again. I swear I fouled my britches."
Rob jerked his tomahawk from the wall, studying his throw for a moment. "The ceiling was too low for a proper overhand throw, but I guess I got close enough."
Tim asked, still a little breathless, but belatedly sheathing his forgotten blade, "What kind of yell was that? I didn't know a human voice could make such a sound."
Rob laughed aloud. "Terrible, isn't it? That was The Warrior's cry; at least it's the closest I can come. I never heard it, but Blue Moccasin did, and Blue's a marvelous imitator."
Rob shook his head in wonder. "I practiced until Blue approved. Figured it would be handy if hostiles came again, but it's been a time since I last tried." Again, Rob's teeth shone. "Judging by what happened I must have got it right."
"Right?" Tim was decisive. "I'd hate hearing it better." He shook his head trying to imagine such a blood-curdling scream coming from the small form of James Cummens, then added, "I'm going to learn that screech, Rob. You can teach me all the way home. Next time it'll be me that makes everybody's toes curl."
Niagara had changed. Sir William Johnson's replacement was stiff lipped and impatient. Of the hunter Charlie Pierre he knew nothing. His aides echoed their superior's disinterest. The Huron no longer camped close by. Iroquois lodges had replaced them.
Of Caraway there was word, and that chapter of Tim Murphy's life closed. John Caraway had inherited land and power. Wealth granted forgiveness, and the outcast had returned to England. Tim tried to visualize Caraway within the stiff and posturing society his teacher had scathingly denounced. Caraway did not fit, but perhaps enough wealth could make the hole fit the peg.
The lodge of Swift Wing and Charlie Pierre was found to lie to the west. On the third day they reached it, but gone was the handsome lodge of wood and many families. Bark and hides now sufficed, and only a single son remained to care for suddenly aging parents.
Tim Murphy, Rifleman Page 14
