Tim Murphy, Rifleman

by Roy F. Chandler

  Smallpox! All knew the signs. Only a few would be mysteriously passed by. Many were the deaths and survivors were pocked and scarred.

  Charlie Pierre did his best to welcome them, but his once strong spirit had broken, and the surviving son seemed unable to renew the friendship he had shared with his brother, Tear.

  Tim Murphy's Huron was rusty and uneasy on his tongue. Swift Wing, his mother, now wrinkled, bent, and nearly toothless, accepted gifts with tearful appreciation. Clearly the sun did not warm this lodge of the Huron.

  The story was a simple one. Smallpox had come down the lake on an English ship. A wave of deaths had swept the Huron and Iroquois living against the white fortress. Too late Charlie Pierre had fled. Dead were the children and the grandchildren. Gone were the many hands to hunt, to raise corn, and to fish. Hard was the living with no one to gather sticks or tan the hides. Fear drove the survivors apart, and villages dissolved forever like snow placed on a fire.

  The heart of Tim Murphy sorrowed, but what could be done? To expect the lodge of Charlie Pierre to march to a new life along the Susquehanna was to expect rocks to fly.

  To his father and mother Tear gave most of what he had brought. A keg of gunpowder bought at the fort made wet the eyes of Charlie Pierre, and the many coins laid into his mother's opened palms for the moment lightened the sorrow and fears weighing the spirit of Swift Wing.

  When the words had been said, the stories told, and the gifts given, no more could be shared.

  Rob said, "Nothing else to do, Tim. Don't start thinking you could stay and help out. Their lives are winding down, and nothing will change that much."

  "Knowing doesn't make it easier, Rob. This family took me in and made me their son."

  "Well, you've marched long and given what you had. What you're seeing here is the way it's going to be for most Indians from now on. Hurts me like it does you. I was raised by Delaware, and they're scattered to the winds. We think of Indians as wild woods livers, but they need their villages and societies just as we do. Without 'em their lives are hard.

  "In one way your folks are fortunate. They still have a son to care for them. In a year there'll be a child, and maybe this lodge will hook up with another. They'll make the best they can of it, and that's all any of us can do."

  Rob Shatto spoke what Tim Murphy knew to be true, but Tim suspected he would wonder his whole lifetime how the last seasons of Swift Wing and Charlie Pierre had gone. Living so far beyond so many lakes and mountains, he would never know.

  Not until the mean ordinary where Rob had frightened them all half to death did Tim's mood begin to lighten. Memory of men scrambling and lunging with Quehana's mind-stunning scream lashing their reason forced a chuckle.

  "Want to go in for another ale, Rob? I don't recall even tasting mine on our last visit."

  Shatto's teeth glinted in the summer sun. "Have to be careful about going back into places like that, Tim. By now there's probably a story about eight or ten wild men who attacked the innocent locals—who fought 'em to a draw and only lost a little hair doing it. We wouldn't want to ruin things."

  "Suits me, but once we're into the woods I want to start learning that scalping cry. Worst sound I ever heard. About turned me into a stone."

  "What'll you use it for, Tim? You planning on scarin' the lights out of Dancer?"

  "You never know, Rob. That screech is a powerful weapon. Maybe the Iroquois will rise or something."

  "Huh, if the Iroquois take the warpath, you load everybody into canoes and don't stop till you're way past Fort Hunter. For damn sure don't waste time yelling at them."

  "The Seneca seem pretty peaceful to me, all settled in permanent longhouses and regular cottages like we put up."

  "Uh huh, panthers dozing in the sun look peaceful, too, but look out if they decide to move."

  The way seemed shorter going home. Rob joked that marching south was moving downhill—everybody knew that.

  At Kanadasega the horses waited, rested, with flesh again covering their bones.

  As soon as he saw them, Rob began grumbling, "Without these animals we could have cut cross-country and saved fifty or more miles travel."

  Tim said, "We'd still be struggling up and down mountains trying to find a deer trail going in our direction. That's why they have paths, Rob. They save time."

  "Oh, I thought paths were for squaws and old people. Real warriors like us don't need 'em."

  A tremendous belching sound from a nearby lodge stopped their talk. Tim laughed, "That warrior must feel better."

  Looking across the village Tim chose an old subject. "Look at this place, Rob, tilled fields, cattle, hogs, even orchards. These people are settled in. Their war trails are over."

  "Hah, this is the kind of village the old warriors came from. A place like Kanadasega has warrior societies. This is where the fierce fighters come from, not from lonesome hunters trying to live off deer meat."

  They were again interrupted by explosive belching. Rob shook his head in wonder, but before he could speak there was more burping, this time in a rhythm popular with ceremonial drummers.

  Rob's brows creased in thought. "You don't suppose that might be . . . ?" He turned to his companion, "You remember that your mother said the party that took her captive was led by a warrior that amused you children by fancy belching, and I recalled a Seneca called Belcher that used to do that. Well, I think we're listening to the Belcher right now."

  Tim felt his heart jump. Only rarely did he think about that earlier time, but visiting his Indian parents had again brought forward the distant tragedy.

  Rob was already rising, and Tim went with him. "What'll you ask him, Rob? Do you think he would even remember? He won't admit it anyway, will he?"

  Shatto stopped. "Hold up and get hold of yourself. This might not be the man I heard about, or he might not even have been the one who . . . what are you getting so excited about? We don’t know anything yet."

  "Excited? I'm not excited. It won't make any difference anyway, why . . . " Rob was walking away, and Tim made himself stop babbling. A hell of a note. Here he was, a man who could hold his sight like a rock ledge with big money at stake going weak minded over maybe finding something out. Embarrassing, but his heart still pumped.

  The belcher was easily found. He sat halfway down a small longhouse on a chair shaped earth mound covered by a bear hide. He was an old man, once large but now shrinking with skin hanging loosely in stretched-out sags.

  A trio of children sat in audience, and one too tiny to walk well worked its wobbly way across the buffalo hide until the belcher hoisted him onto a thigh and held the small body within a friendly arm.

  Rob and Tim chose log seats and exchanged introductions. The belcher was honored to be visited by Quehana, the Arrowmaker. When he turned to Tim Murphy the belcher seemed to study his guest's face longer than usual, but Tim was used to that. The teardrop eye was difficult to ignore.

  The old man announced, "I am the Belcher," and as if to prove it, rolled a long and hollow belch in the children's direction. His audience smiled appreciatively, covering their mouths in courtesy. Handing his lap-sitter to one, the Belcher shooed them away.

  Tim found it difficult to believe that the rheumy-eyed oldster could have been the leader of a ferocious war party only . . . what? Not four hands of years past? But, Indians seemed to age suddenly. Charlie Pierre had grown old in a single hand's time. Maybe . . . Tim returned to the conversation.

  Rob explained what they wished to know. He described the time and the fields and cabin where the Juniata and Susquehanna Rivers joined. He told of the woman who escaped, the man who had died, and the children carried off. What, he asked, did the Belcher know of the matter?

  Before responding, the Belcher drew forth pipe and kinnikinnick. Courteously, Rob offered their own tobacco and puffed twice before passing the pipe to Tim Murphy who did likewise. Both understood the ceremony. Following the smoke they spoke in friendship.

  Preparing his
pipe gave Belcher time to think. He had no fear of telling the story, the violence was long past, and there had been no war for many seasons. Here at the chief village of the Seneca he was certainly safe. The pause allowed time to properly remember and to correctly tell the story.

  Quehana's tobacco was smooth on the tongue, and the Belcher savored a few draughts before beginning.

  "Long has it been since the lodge of the Belcher stood at Chilesquakee. Then the Belcher was young and his legs were like hickory."

  Tim Murphy's palms sweat. By all the holies, this Belcher knew. He would hear the story after all.

  "The noble Iroquois were not at war, but the warriors of other tribes had driven whites from their cabins.

  "So came the Belcher with squaws and two young men to harvest corn abandoned by whites at the place Quehana describes.

  "It happened that whites had also returned to gather the corn. As the whites' cabin lay on Iroquois land the corn should not be theirs.

  "It was Belcher's wish to give fear to the whites and send them away, but a white seized his gun and tried to fire at a young man. In excitement, the youth killed the white. A woman's squalling sent a second white into flight, and there was no more fighting.

  "The Belcher hoped to disguise the accident by hanging a Shawnee pouch on the white woman and allowing her to escape with her children, but the woman took only herself, and the Belcher did not know what to do with the children.

  "The corn was loaded, and the children were taken to the Chilesquakee longhouse. There, wise counselors decided that the children should be sent far away so that the Seneca of the Iroquois would not be blamed. The youths who struck too soon were awarded the duty of delivering the children."

  The Belcher had talked and now chose to use the pipe to regather his thoughts. He saw the eagerness in the young white's eyes and knew the eye marking as if he had seen it yesterday. The Belcher knew his story's direction.

  "The children were a girl of two hands of years. Old enough to be useful, the girl was sent to the Miami.

  "The boy was but a babe, yet he did not wail as many white children do. I amused him with special sounds. One he particularly enjoyed." The Belcher swallowed air and burped it forth in a series of short chirpings. He watched carefully, but recognition did not light the eyes of the white youth. Inwardly, the Belcher shrugged. It had been long ago.

  "Because the boy was specially marked by the Great Spirit I wished to keep him myself, but the wise counselors knew better. The boy was taken to the Huron. There a hunter took the babe and the dead white's musket. Both were valuable gifts to a lodge desiring another son.

  "The Great Spirit's mark was a tear beneath the strong eye. Only once before have I seen the mark. Yet, here in this lodge the Belcher sees again the tear beneath the eye. Certain is the Belcher that he meets again the babe from where the village Juanetau once stood."

  In their first camp beyond the village the travelers had the freedom to discuss the Belcher's words.

  "Well, that ends the mystery, Tim."

  "Most of it."

  "What's left? I was right that it was no war party that struck your family. You know who took you and who raised you. Appears to me the circle is complete."

  "And my sister, Rob?"

  "Great guns, you aren't thinking of going to the Miami, are you?"

  Tim laughed, "No, it is far too late for that. If she lived, my sister was probably exchanged. If not exchanged she is certainly a Miami squaw, probably with children. What could I do, ride in and say, 'Good day to you sister,' and ride out?"

  Rob snorted, "We'll have hiked and ridden over six hundred miles to do about that with your Indian parents. You're not to be trusted around family, Murphy."

  In answer, Tim tried his barely developing scalping yell.

  Shatto yawned, "That was pathetic, Tim. You could put babies to sleep with such squeaking. There's an undisturbed chipmunk still sitting looking at us."

  Rob groused, "Now we'll have to move far before we sleep in case some listener wants easy sounding scalps.

  "For sure The Warrior ain't restless in envy."

  Chapter 14

  Marriage

  Without preachers, the people of the north valleys did their own marrying and burying. When a minister did ride through it was usually some Lutheran, which did not count too much in the eyes of the Scotch-Irish Presbyterian frontiersmen.

  The usual way was to pick someone high in the orders of Free Masonry and have him read a few pertinent Bible verses before binding the couple with words of his own choosing.

  There were other traditions that counted for something. Some couples stepped together over a broomstick; a man might carry his bride across a threshold; others drank with their arms entwined.

  Tim Murphy's wedding enjoyed a bit of everything. Even the August heat lifted a little, and a soft breeze held biting insects at bay. Occasions for celebration were rare, and few along the rivers failed to appear for the a-bit-too-long-heralded marriage of Dancer Ellis to the noted crack marksman, Timothy Murphy.

  It was clear that young Tim Murphy was to be a citizen of importance. As half owner of Francis Ellis's prospering farm, Murphy already possessed a stout cabin, draft animals, and livestock. The partners' latest venture was a ferry that could prove handy for travelers wishing to switch riversides. Tim Murphy had prospects.

  Before the marrying, families remained solemn with men discussing crops and the distant politics of exasperating statesmen in Philadelphia. Parliament and the royalty rarely came up. Too far removed and beyond influencing, the government in England was a millstone only occasionally examined.

  The marriage was performed beneath trees overlooking the river. Francis Ellis counted more than forty adults in attendance. The Hornsocks from upriver, newly arrived and without English, had come a good distance, as had the Shattos and Elans. There were Hulings from Duncan's Island that Martha Baskins Ellis was especially pleased to see, and a passing Indian family lingered to watch the whites' strange rites. A fine turnout, Ellis concluded.

  Of course the marrying took forever. The chosen speaker lambasted evil, wrestled the devil, and praised the Lord. He exhorted his audience to be Samaritans, fear God, and be bountiful—as the frontier needed more hardy Scotsmen and Lassies to tame the wilderness.

  Dancer was of course lovely in her step- mother's wedding dress. Francis Ellis recalled how he had pinched to purchase the good material and how Martha had lovingly sewed and fitted, changing the cloth into a garment of beauty. Then, they had little more than hopes, and their possessions were carried from Carlisle on a single pack animal with the family walking ahead.

  Now . . . now it was different, and not a little of their prosperity was due to their new son-in-law, Tim Murphy. The Lord had surely laid his blessing on all of them. Tim's return from captivity had greatly lightened his wife's grief over the loss of her first family, and the truth be told, Francis Ellis and Tim Murphy were a good team.

  Oh, the Ellises were managing before Tim's arrival, but the cash money made available by Murphy's astonishing marksmanship opened possibilities only dreamt about. Hard work could take a man only so far. To break through the barriers of mere subsistence additional hands were needed. Tim's cash hired workers to clear, plant, and build. Tools and animals could be purchased, and a man could have the time to look around and judge just how well things were going.

  On the other hand, Murphy was not much at clearing and plowing. He could chip in and help out, but the day in and day out, dawn to dark labor was not for him. Before long Tim went hunting or found a need to discover what Rob Shatto was doing over on the Little Buffalo. Francis figured it was the Injun upbringing. Men didn't do much hoeing in the red societies.

  For Murphy's well being it was best that he had found the Ellis’s steadying influence, else-wise Tim might have just wandered his life away. Dancer would settle him a bit more, and that would be about right for all of them.

  The farm did not need two managers; Fr
ancis was grateful that Tim stayed out of that end. If their ferry worked out as both expected, Tim's shooting money wouldn't be all that necessary either. That was a point Francis had never expected to reach, but with more fields open and their whiskey bringing cash back upriver, they had made remarkable strides.

  The progress showed. Tim and Dancer's cabin had two rooms, a brick fireplace, and a handsome front porch overlooking the Susquehanna. A porch! Who'd have believed it when only a few years back he and Martha with all the children had lived in one room and cooked outside because they did not have a chimney.

  Then, the forest had pushed against them, and their clearing was only abandoned Indian fields. Now there was meadow and pasture. Their barn was three times the size of the original cabin, and an addition was started. They drew water from a dug well so none required hauling from the spring. And they had a window with bull's-eye glass in it. Dancer's new home had two glass windows, and inside their rooms were as light as day. Sometimes Francis doubted it could get much better.

  Standing near the edge of the gathering, Rob Shatto measured by similar markers. In his youth Iroquois had lived at this place. Now look at it! Not that the log cabins were all that better living than the communal longhouse, but the farm for two families had already opened more land than had the two dozen or more Seneca who had lived here. Industrious are the white eyes. Rob smiled to himself, glad to see others progressing, but just as pleased that he did not have to swing an axe or look at a plow horse’s rump till the sun disappeared.

  Quehana's eyes swept the not so distant forest edge, instinctively watchful, longrifle standing upright between his feet even during tame occasions. Catching himself at it, Rob noted that Jack Elan did the same; Tim Murphy's head swung, as without awareness he also checked for interlopers.

  Murphy had taken hold. Rob knew the signs. The long weeks to and from Niagara had done most of it. Tim had absorbed the hard learned cautions important to frontier survival. Unlike most gathered for the wedding, Tim Murphy would not just hope things went well.