Tim Murphy, Rifleman

by Roy F. Chandler

  Laird slumped, winded and shaking. "I'm run out, Tim, and they'll be comin' soon. You skinny down that cliff, and I'll hold 'em here for a shot or two."

  Tim's mind was working. "Rest here, Shep. I'll be back." He handed Laird his rifle but kept his own.

  The cliff fell vertically, ragged, granite looking stone. There were easy ways down, and animals had used one. Tim searched for something else.

  A crack in the cliff edge looked inviting. He looked over and grunted in satisfaction. A man could go down working hands and feet in cracks and knobs. Tim tried it.

  Thirty feet down a narrow horizontal crack offering a foothold went off to the side. Tim edged along it, but the crack ran out. He tested the other less inviting edge, rounded a small protrusion—and there it was, almost as good as he could have hoped—a shallow cave-like break with room enough for them both. Tim laid his rifle inside and started back.

  He reached Laird just as whooping started back the way they had come. Laird had cover among tree roots, but Tim snatched his rifle and hauled his exhausted friend to his feet.

  "Come on and fast. I've got a place."

  Shep Laird did not wish to die, and he hurried.

  They reached the spot on the cliff top as whooping broke across the ridgeline. Tim slid over the edge. "Follow me down. I'll guide your feet."

  Laird backed over, and Tim's hands slammed his feet solidly into place. They went down swiftly, urged on by the rapidly approaching whoops of warriors close on a trail.

  At the ledge, Tim stepped aside. "Across there, Shep, and get a move on. It isn't far." He gazed anxiously up at the cliff rim. If discovered now, they were dead.

  Cursing his weakened leg, Laird struggled across the face of the cliff. Tim heard whooping die as the warriors reached the trees where Laird had waited. It began again, triumphant and close, certain of victory, heading straight toward them. No wonder, their trail must have stood out like a traveling path.

  With gratification, Tim stepped onto the horizontal crevice and was almost immediately hidden from view.

  Laird disappeared around the cliff bulge, and Tim struggled after him. He was around an instant before the whooping again stopped just above them.

  Tim half fell into the hollow. Laird had pushed himself into the farthest angle, and there was more room than Tim had expected.

  Indians spoke from above asking to see and deciding what next to do. Tim Murphy understood every word. He whispered to Laird, "Some are going around and come down an easy way. Some upstream, more downstream. Three will wait above so we can't climb back up."

  "You know their language?" Laird's whisper was soft.

  "They're Huron, Shep. I should have recognized their markings. Too damned scared, I guess. First we've encountered, though John Butler uses them off and on.

  "Yep, I can talk their language. Grew up with it." Tim's voice was ironic. "Fact is, it sounds kind of nice to my ears."

  Laird slid sideward adjusting himself, sighing in satisfaction. "This is a perfect spot, Tim. Those old Irish gods must have been looking out for us both."

  "Best we could hope for, though I'd prefer having a cave about a mile deep. We'll be hard to reach here. Can't shoot down on us, and they can't see us from across."

  "I wouldn't want to be the one who comes along that crack after us."

  "One will try, maybe more."

  There was calling from below that was answered from the cliff top.

  Tim said, "No tracks below. They've figured out we're somewhere on the cliff. One's coming down."

  They heard the warrior descending. The sound passed their turn off, and more talk rose. The climber started back up. Tim held his rifle ready.

  The warrior paused at their ledge. Tim whispered, "No sense waiting. He'll look till he finds us." Tim full cocked, easing the hammer to minimize the click of the sear engaging. He edged toward the cliff bulge that hid their position. Laird saw him peer around, then extend the rifle as though pointing.

  The Huron was there, a younger man, wiry and lean, edging back from exploring the wrong side of the crevice. He saw Murphy's rifle come level, but trapped, needing both arms and feet, his tomahawk dangling from a wrist, he could do nothing. Their eyes locked. Murphy saw only flaring hatred. Held one handed, his rifle wobbled. Tim fought it. The Huron came hard, risking the fall, his war whoop rising.

  Murphy's rifle cracked, driving the voice from the warrior's chest. His eyes blanked and his hold slacked; downward he slid, bouncing away from the cliff and out of sight, perhaps already dead. A horrendous scalping cry screeched triumph and rebounded from the cliffs.

  Laird said, "Holy God!"

  It was a moment before Tim Murphy realized the terrible scream was his own. Shocked by his own ferocity, he scrabbled back into the safety of their burrow.

  From below screams and bellows of outrage answered. Beyond caring, a screeching brave lunged downward from the cliff rim and others clawed their ways up the cliff face. Tim handed Laird his rifle, and took Shep's in return.

  Loading Murphy's empty barrel Shep said, "Only heard your scalpin' cry once before, Tim. Powerful medicine. About made my heart pause."

  Tim's answer was a snarl. "I hate laying back like some trapped animal. Got to me for a minute, I guess."

  A straining hand appeared at the wall bulge, and Murphy leveled Shep's rifle. When a face appeared he blew it into a bloody froth. The body fell away and landed with a sodden thud. No raging shrieks answered. Murphy took his rifle back and waited. There were sounds of scraping and some whispering he could not translate.

  Without warning a musket barrel poked around the bulge and fired blindly. Flung away the musket fell and a bronzed figure swung into view. Straining eyes glared above a tomahawk gripped between white teeth. Tim's rifle ball ended the snarl and precipitated yet another silent death fall.

  The Huron's bullet had flown wide, and Shep said, "These people don't learn too quick, Tim."

  His answer was violent and unexpected. From the canyon's opposite side, invisible to Murphy and Laird, thundered a tremendous volley of musketry. Aimed blindly through branches and foliage, the loads of ball and shot flattened and ricocheted along the cliff face. A few found the riflemen's hideaway. A disintegrating pellet spattered Tim's face making his eyes weep, and Laird grunted, and Tim felt him buck and writhe.

  In the following quiet, Murphy listened with half-deafened ears watching a vast smoke cloud slowly dissipate. "My god, Shep, there are a hundred of them. What in hell did we run into, Butler's main force?"

  "Cripes a mighty, how'd they get over there? I never heard them a'tall."

  "Neither did I, but I hope they don't try that again. Whew, balls were whistling all over the place."

  "What I want to know is how with you between them and me I get hit again and you don't."

  Startled, Tim asked, "You hit, Shep? Where? How bad?"

  "Where, is damned near in my damned arrow wound. How bad? Well, it stings like fire, which probably means it ain't too deep. Bad wounds numb. They hurt later on. It's the little ones that make a man want to cry."

  Relieved, Tim said, "Maybe talking to them will run them off. Could go the other way though, and I don't want to get this party more roused." Tim had finished reloading his rifle barrel. "Let me listen to them for a minute."

  After a bit, Tim said, "They can't decide what to do. Some of the Huron want to pull out before Johnson's scouts discover the ambush. Sounds like that was a big success, and they don't want to waste time on us. A few say they will stay until our bones rot. There are two Englishmen down there, but neither speaks Huron. Their interpreter says they wish to move on. They say the victory was great, many scalps taken, and that it is foolish to waste lives rooting two enemy out of these rocks."

  "Talk to the English first, Tim. They're sayin' what I wish to hear."

  Staying tucked out of view, Tim called out. "Hello down there. Anybody speak English?"

  An English voice said softly, "He cannot hear us,
Major."

  A second Englishman said loudly, "What do you want, rebel?"

  "We want you to go away. You cannot get to us, and we have water and food. No sense in hanging around trying to control those Indians."

  The voice said, "We can chop down a few trees until we can see you."

  "No you can't. We've got a deep cave here. Fact is, we've never found the end of it. Even if you got in, we would always have you against the light. You cannot reach us."

  Laird whispered, "You liar, Murphy."

  The Englishman said, "We can leave a small party that can wait you out. In a few weeks you will be dead."

  Tim made his laugh scornful. "There are water seeps all through this cavern, and you are not talking to Continentals. We are Morgan's men. We can live for months on a handful of corn. Both our pouches are full, so you will have a mighty wait."

  "We can wait."

  Tim raised the ante. "Hope you do because sooner or later you will look away, and we will collect a few more coups on your warriors."

  Tim listened to the Indian interpreter. His translation was credible. Tim said to Laird, "That's got the war party gabbling. We will give them a minute."

  They again waited, Tim occasionally explaining the Huron to Laird. "They think we're just a couple of ordinary rifle shooters. The argument is whether we're worth any trouble. One thinker wants to pile brush and send fire clear to the cliff top. So far my deep cave story is holding up, so nobody is listening to him. I think I’ll talk to them."

  Tim gathered his thoughts and tried to feel Indian. Pride, strength, and courage must flow in his voice.

  "Oh noble warriors of the Huron. Listen now to the words of your brother."

  There was a moment of utter silence, then a babble of astonished voices. Control replaced the surprise, and quiet returned.

  A strong Huron voice asked, "Who calls himself brother of the Huron?"

  "I, Tear, son of Charlie Pierre, of the lodge of Swift Wing claims that honor."

  There was quiet talk that Tim could not make out. Shep Laird softly cursed his wound and shifted about seeking comfort.

  The same voice said, "Tear has been long from his people, and now he fights against his English father."

  Tim answered swiftly. "The English chief is not Tear's father, and Tear does not war on Huron land or against the Huron people."

  "Tear has killed his Huron brothers."

  "The Huron wished to kill Tear."

  There was muttering. "The Huron will form a fire circle. The pipe will be passed, and Tear will council with his brothers."

  Tim's voice sorrowed. "Tear cannot trust the English green jackets, so he cannot council except from safety. For this Tear is sad, but soon the riflemen of Sullivan will seek their missing.

  The English will flee, as they did at Chemung and Onondaga, as they did at Saratoga, and the Huron will be left to council alone-—alone as were the Schoharie and the Seneca. Then Tear will sit at the circle with his brothers."

  There was subdued muttering, the English voices choked with anger, the Huron increasingly sullen.

  Without warning a quavering cry was uttered and taken up by a veritable multitude. Tim instinctively pulled back, and Laird said, "Oh god, they're going to start shootin' blind again."

  Tim said, "Nope, they're pulling out. That howling is just pride saving. Shows they aren't afraid or beaten, just moving on."

  "Well, I'll be danged." Laird stayed suspicious. "But how'll we know they haven't left ambushers?"

  "Hell, Shep, they will leave them. Above and below both." Tim laughed, "Who cares? We'll just get comfortable on this ledge and wait them out. By then you will be fit to stumble along."

  "How'll we know when the last of 'em leaves?"

  "We won't. When you are fit, and I'm tired of waiting, I'll go out and kill any still around."

  Tim said, "Roll over and let me at that bullet wound before it poisons you."

  After Tim was done and his patient had quit panting and sweating from the pain, Laird said, "Let's go home, Tim. I need a rest from all of this. It's makin' me old a'fore my time."

  Tim leaned against the rock of their stronghold, content to relax before cleaning the rifles and arranging their sentry duty.

  "Alright, Shep. I've had enough myself. By summer there won't be any riflemen serving anyway. They'll all be made into line soldiers lugging muskets and shooting on a sergeant's command. I can see it coming. Scouts aren't popular anymore, and being infantry is not for me."

  Tim asked, "Where do you want to go, Shep? North Carolina? Down to Winchester with Dan Morgan?"

  Laird sounded insulted. "Hell no, Murphy, I'm going to your place. It's a lot closer and we can canoe half the way." He spoke in mock threat. "It better be as nice livin' there as you claim it is."

  "Oh, it's nice, Shep. Once you give it a try you'll warrant ground close by.

  "Fact is, I'm about done with this war. My gods, just today I killed . . . How many? Five, I guess.

  "I've onemore task then I'm finished."

  Laird sounded despairing. "Oh god, Tim, you're not plannin' on shootin' John Butler or Henry Hamilton in Detroit are you?"

  Tim's laugh was grim. "Those are good ideas, Shep, but the only one I want is Pocan, that Schoharie that murdered Caraway."

  "He's likely dead himself, Tim."

  "Perhaps, but along the Hudson men are watching. If Pocan returns, I will go for him."

  p> Laird answered sleepily. "You'll have to take first guard, Murph. My eyes are heavier than bullets. "And Tim, if you have to shoot any, no more of those scalping yells. I might throw myself clean off this ledge, and it's a long way down."

  Chapter 24

  They had rested in their rock crevice for ten days while Laird's leg wounds began knitting. Their canteens emptied, but it rained and Tim refilled from runoff channeled down the cliff.

  When Murphy finally crept to the cliff top he chose high noon when an escape might be unexpected, but no ambushers waited. The last Indian sign was days old, before the rain came.

  The walk to the Susquehanna was leisurely, if avoiding paths and camping without fire fit that description. They could not hurry because vigorous effort would have opened Laird's wounds. At the river they purchased a nearly exhausted canoe from a small Seneca fishing village and floated unannounced to Tim's front door.

  Murphy had stepped ashore and promptly declared, "Except for shooting dead that murdering Schoharie, I'm not traveling more than a comfortable walk from this spot. I'm home to stay, Shep." When Tim's surprised and excited family came in enthusiastic greeting, Laird had to marvel that Tim had ever left.

  Shep Laird departed almost immediately. He took the tired canoe and continued south.

  Laird said, "There's a young gal down in Carolina that I've been waitin' on to grow up. If she ain't claimed yet, I'm marryin' her and settlin' down.

  “I’m comin’ back here, Tim. Carolina’s too hot, and the game is about shot out. Fact is, you've got what any man wants right here, so I'll be back. Courtin’ and marryin’ll take time, so I might not appear until the spring. Just don't let no pilgrim warrant that little valley alongside your holdings. That'll be for me and Martha."

  Tim said, "Oh no, Laird. Not another Martha. This woods is already full of Marthas. If a man calls out that name a dozen voices answer."

  Shep Laird had come back and with his vastly pregnant child bride occupied their newly constructed cabin. Shep kept a cow, a garden, did a little hunting and not much else. Tim hired him as permanent ferryman—to be paid a portion of whatever the ferry took in—and Laird was obviously content.

  Chapter 25

  1783

  Early summer

  Tim Murphy raised his moccasined feet onto an empty keg and settled deeper into his leather and wood lounging chair. Francis Ellis had carpentered a pair of the comfortable seats, one for himself, the second for his son-in-law. As Ellis spent most of his loafing time next door, the seats were positioned side by side on
the Murphy's broad porch.

  Today, Ellis's chair was occupied by Rob Shatto who had ridden upriver, "Just poking around, testing the air."

  About fifty, the big frontiersman seemed unchanged from the time Tim had first met him. An awesome individual, Murphy thought, in many ways unique. Shatto still had an eye peeled for hostiles, and his rifle leaned beside his seat. The double-barreled pistol he usually carried at the small of his back was hitched around to the front for comfort and lay handy in his lap.

  Laird was also present. Like Francis Ellis, Shep Laird spent a lot of time at the Murphy's.

  A horse's clopping approach cleared their porch reverie, and young Tim went to see.

  Laird said, "I hope that isn't a customer, the day's too nice for laboring."

  After a moment's consideration Shep added, "Maybe it's a stranger and we can lure him into shootin' at mark or even General Fraser."

  A prominent river stone, so far out it seemed beyond hitting had been named General Fraser by Tim's boys. Murphy could hit the distant target with regularity, Shatto succeeded occasionally, but others scored too rarely to be considered more than lucky. Shep Laird's shooting eye had developed a cataract, greatly shortening his shooting distance. Laird could still hunt, but beyond a hundred yards he did not see clearly.

  Because the opposite riverbank was so distant and ferry customers so hard to see, Tim had traded for a seaman's telescope. For General Fraser shooting, the instrument was placed in a pair of notches on the porch rail that pointed it at the proper stone. A bit of focusing and the hits and misses could be seen. Shep Laird usually sat behind the telescope, and he was not above lying in Tim's favor, perhaps calling a near miss a hit with a ricochet.

  Today there would be no shooting. The rider carried a letter to "Rifleman, Tim Murphy, on the Susquehanna, above the Juniata joining." Tim read the single sheet, and his feet hit the floor with a thump.