The Black Rifle (Perry County Frontier series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Amid a rising tumult of excited voices, Blue Moccasin hung the moose scrotum on the tree. There could be no doubt that word of Elan’s challenge and unmatchable insults would flash among the tribes. That the Eater must accept the challenge or be forever marked appeared likely.

  Although Blue Moccasin enjoyed a grim satisfaction that his mission had gone as planned, he sent special requests to both his Delaware and white Gods that the forthcoming combat would go as well for Jack Elan.

  Chapter 12

  Shooting

  Rob Shatto sat atop his winter depleted woodpile and watched Jack Elan reloading his black rifle. The sun lay warm on his shoulders, and he enjoyed the physical lethargy that came with the year’s first spring days.

  They had scouted carefully before beginning their shooting, and Rob had seen no Indian sign, not that prowling hostiles left much of a trail. Over the years he had sharpened his eye until he figured it would take a mighty lucky Indian to prowl his land undetected. Indians moved with destinations in mind. They tended to stick to established trails, and if lacking human paths, they followed game trails. War parties wishing to be undetected did exactly the opposite, which meant that dangerous passings were often found in least likely areas. If you knew the land and Indian thinking, a skilled searcher did not have to re-explore every inch of ground every day. Rob Shatto had scouted his valley since his youth, and he had hunted game and on occasion hostiles on that land for most of his days.

  Jack Elan still could hardly tell where a man had tromped across a plowed field. Rob frowned a little, not liking the thoughts that crowded his mind.

  He watched Elan dump powder charges into each rifle barrel and nodded approval.

  There was a touch of danger in loading two barrels. A man could, by accident, double charge one barrel and not have anything in the second tube. A rifle barrel could stand double charging, even triple charges, and not blow up, but pulling down on an important shot and discovering you had only an empty barrel could be discouraging. A hunter had to know how to load and how to do it fast. A game animal would not wait for a slow hunter, and an enemy could be on you before careful powder measuring was complete.

  Elan did it well. His gun handling was smooth and sure. It was plain that he had been practicing in the dark and with his eyes shut—the way he had been told. A hunter, whether searching for four or two-legged targets, should not have to look as his hands worked. His eyes should be on his game or his enemy, and when the rifle rose it would be loaded and cocked.

  The shooting was going along all right. Jack would never be a natural rifleman, but he was getting faster, and he was sure. At shorter ranges, what Elan fired at was hit.

  They worked little at long range shooting. It took a lot of time, powder, and balls to learn to hold into wind and to figure how far a ball would drop at different ranges. As Elan’s plan called for short, quick shooting, they put anything over one hundred yards aside—for the time being.

  As Rob watched, Elan finished loading and took a position some forty yards from their bark-slab target. At Rob’s nod, Jack walked swiftly toward the target, head moving left and right as though the target was unseen. At Rob’s sudden whistle, Elan raised his rifle and instantly fired at the target. Bark jumped near the center, and Elan turned to walk away.

  Rob let him go a good distance before he again signaled, but Elan’s turn was quick and smooth. The black rifle rose and spat smoke the instant it came to bear. Again the hit was solid, and Rob grunted in satisfaction. That was good shooting.

  They talked little while working with the rifle. It was all business, and neither man took it lightly. Still, there was an unnecessary grimness about Elan that Rob Shatto hoped would ease. The man was plainly driven, and in fact, made no bones about it. If he had goals or thoughts beyond the Heart-Eater, Elan kept them buried deep within, and no one knew them.

  Sherman’s valley was mostly empty and could do with a man like Elan. Assuming he survived his encounter with the Shawnee, Rob thought he would lean on Jack to stay. Elan would make a good, solid neighbor that could be depended upon, and judging by some of the others he saw throwing up cabins along Sherman’s Creek and the rivers, a lot of the new settlers were not as steady as they might be.

  Rob could see why people came across the Susquehanna and tried hacking a farm from the virgin forest. A man with a helping wife and younglings to grow into willing hands could make himself a fine plantation. The land was good, and crops grew strong, but there was brutally hard work to it.

  His own place was the best example. Visitors always marveled at what had been accomplished, but he had been working at it for many a year. Thinking back over the time he had put in building the big, strong stone house and all the clearing and planting they had done almost made him tired. He had lived about as poorly as a man could and still survive during the first years, and he had latched onto any help that happened by. He had made his tiles with the help of E’shan the Delaware arrowpoint maker’s wives, whom he called Fat and Flat. Shaping and baking the clay tiles had taken months, but the labor had proven wise. Fire arrows or flaming brush would not burn through the roof of Quehana’s lodge.

  The Shatto place had begun using natural meadows, and when the Delaware had moved on, Rob and his helpers had cleared, plowed, and planted additional fields at a ferocious pace.

  Some years, crops failed and living had been slim, but each season, they had cleared more and planted thicker. The Shattos clawed ahead, and now it would take plague or all-out Indian war to shake them loose.

  Hostiles were always a threat, but their menace became less each year as the tribes were forced west and north, and fewer Indians reached beyond the height of Tuscarora Mountain.

  Given another few years, the Indian Wars could be history. Whites might be driven away, but they always came again in greater numbers. The tribes might not be out-fought, but they would be outlasted. In his lifetime, Rob Shatto expected to see the last of hostile war parties from any tribe.

  Take a man like Elan, now. A couple of times he had mentioned John Shell’s Martha. It was plain that Jack was taken with her. Once he got the Shawnee out of his mind, Elan could take up with a fine, strong woman like Martha and make them a place not too far away.

  There was a spot up against Mahanoy Ridge, over on the Little Juniata Creek, that seemed to be waiting for a snug cabin and some clearing. He would like to talk some about that with Elan, and he figured he would, but right now, Rob had to admit, the man needed all of his thoughts on what he was doing.

  They worked at shooting for a while longer. Elan practiced leaping to his feet and shooting and grabbing his rifle off the ground and letting go from hip level.

  Rob said, “There is no way to tell just how you will come onto Heart-Eater, and it is just as likely that he will come onto you. No matter how you are standing, sitting, or lying, you will have to come up shooting without jerking around or getting your feet set. Against a Shawnee, you will need to make your shot count because it is certain sure that he won’t miss with whatever weapon he is using.”

  If Elan did well with his rifle, his other woods skills were lacking. Rob swore Elan sounded like a cattle herd moving through the forest, and he could not read sign at all. Sometimes, even after Rob pointed markings out to him, Elan didn’t really see anything different.

  They talked about it a lot. No question, the Eater would be far and away the best hunter. He would be stronger than Elan and better with any weapon except the rifle.

  Elan might be the quicker of the two. On the other hand, both The Warrior and Rob Shatto were powerfully muscled. The Warrior was smoother than a shadow, and Rob’s quickness and instant reflexes made Elan appear clumsy and dull. So, you could not be sure that the Eater would be slow moving, just because he was large and strong.

  They thought Elan might use his running ability to good advantage. Jack could trot with Rob across miles of forest and meadow. Elan was not sure, but he suspected that in a desperate sprint and for a s
hort distance, he might even be able to gain a step. By staying light and training hard, Jack planned on having better legs and wind than the Shawnee.

  Then there was the land. Elan’s plan called for meeting the Heart-Eater near his old cabin. The Eater could know a forest by instinct and training, but he could not be familiar with the terrain at the cabin site.

  Elan already knew the land’s features. By fall, he figured to know them better than he knew his own hand. He would live on the land, he would roam it, measure it, and judge it. He would learn the best ways and the worst. He would be friends with every rock and tree. Each fold of earth would be clear in his mind, and he would know just how long it took to get from one place to another. Whether dark or in bright sunlight, Jack Elan planned to be one with his valley.

  This time, Elan figured to do the hunting, and Toquisson, the Heart-Eater could see how he made out being the hunted.

  Chapter 13

  Lodge of the Eater

  There was no laughter in the lodge of Toquisson, the Heart-Eater. The coals of his fire barely glowed, and sitting wrapped in his robes and his thoughts, the Eater lacked even the interest to add sticks to ward off an evening chill.

  If there was happiness in the village, he, Toquisson, had no part in it. Since the white eyes’ hard moccasin had driven into his most tender parts, he had known no pleasure. Though pain had gone and his body had again grown strong, black hatred rode Toquisson’s soul, and insatiable demands for vengeance ate at his being.

  His existence in the village had grown nearly intolerable. The amused and knowing looks of maidens and squaws had been replaced by indifference, but that was hardly an improvement. The making of bird noises as he had passed had ceased abruptly when he had seized a young tormentor and beaten him enough to confine the youth to his sleeping robes for some days.

  Toquisson knew the people feared him. As though unsure of how he might act, even proud warriors walked lightly in his presence. He cultivated the friendship of the young warrior who had accompanied him when he took the yellow scalp, for he would otherwise have been alone.

  Once, he had lived in a longhouse with a number of families. His presence had been accepted. He had provided meat for all, and as a noted warrior, he had given importance to the lodge.

  Lately, the people of the lodge had turned sullen and were quiet when he entered. The women and children avoided his eyes, and the hunters addressed him reluctantly. Toquisson was aware that his own truculence and black rages were largely responsible for the lodge’s aversion, but the passions were beyond his control. With increasing regularity he allowed dark moods to sweep over him while he wallowed within anger and despair.

  Finding the longhouse unpleasant, he had moved to the small lodge once occupied by the captive white. A pair of old women saw to his needs, and he repaid by hunting for their families.

  In his single lodge, the Eater made no attempt to provide comforts or convenience. Things lay where the squaws placed them. When he hungered, he ate in solitude. When weary, he wrapped a thick robe about his body and attempted sleep. Often, his rest was only haunted hours of dozing before a dead lodge fire, and he was glad for morning light to escape the agonies of his dreaming.

  The announcement by the message carrier Blue Moccasin that the white eye still lived had stunned Toquisson. The challenge and insults from the white had sickened him, and utter frustration churned his guts. For a long moment the Eater had considered burying his hatchet in the chest of his tormentor. He should be forever thankful for the young warrior who had turned him aside. To have attacked the message carrier would have ostracized him from tribal society forever, and if not killed by his own people, he could not have found sanctuary in even the most distant of tribes.

  Spreading word of the challenge across the Iroquois nations was unnecessary. The Eater could scarcely wait for the corn to ripen. Then, he would find the despised white at the wooden lodge near the mountain called Conococheague. The Heart-Eater needed no preparations to meet his enemy. When he was not brooding in the darkness of his lodge, he followed the hunting trails. His arrows were straight and his hatchet was sharp. Toquisson, warrior of the Shawnee, was always ready.

  In the spring, the Eater took part in two raids against white cabins along the Monongahela River, and as summer drew on, he and the young warrior ambushed and killed a pair of travelers from a western tribe. The Eater thought they might be Lacotas.

  In his hatred of the white eye who had taken his manhood and left him an object for laughter in the villages, Toquisson vowed to eat no enemy hearts until he devoured that of the white. His vow was mighty, for some believed that from the heart of an enemy one could gain that warrior’s wisdom and valor. Eaters of hearts were almost unknown, but to many, the act was recognized as an ultimate victory in battle.

  So, Toquisson waited, counting the moons and planning marches. At times, he would start from his brooding, and his body would quiver in anticipation. He prayed to his spirits that the white eye would remain well until he, the Eater, could reach him with a war arrow or a tomahawk and finally with an iron knife. Visions of those moments turned the Heart-Eater’s fingers into talons, and his body jerked uncontrollably.

  If he lived, Toquisson would be at the lodge of the white eye. The Great Spirit himself could not turn him aside. The Heart-Eater brooded and waited and planned.

  Chapter 14

  The Clearing

  Elan’s cabin site lay some miles from Rob Shatto’s, although it was only five miles from Robinson’s stockade. Once, Elan had planned to fort-up at Robinson’s—if there had been Indian troubles.

  Mostly, war parties kept to their familiar trails until near their destination, or so Elan had been told. Blue Moccasin claimed that the party that had struck his place had been in search of richer hunting grounds. They had followed Horse Valley Creek and split along Little Valley Creek. It was bad luck that it was the Eater who saw their cabin and chose to look closer.

  Elan found himself doddering on his way back to the cabin. He had already killed time watching deer on Middle Ridge and had just about talked himself into swinging over to Robinson’s.

  It took a little facing-up to admit that he was avoiding seeing the cabin—burned by someone unknown—and the grave. It seemed that the closer he got, the worse he felt. His head began pounding and, although the morning was cool, he sweat all over.

  When he came to the clearing edge, the drum beat too loudly, and he had to rest against a boulder letting his mind explore a little at a time. He had thought some about the home site. He had seen Ellie and the boy’s grave in his mind, but he guessed he had shied from really remembering.

  Walking the familiar ground increased the pounding in his head. Stumps and girdled trees where he had worked hard and long tore at his emotions. Elan again sat, choosing to take it real careful—letting sweat dry and feeling his heart slow toward normal.

  Elan had approached the ruined cabin from the north, working his way through the shallow notch that divided his ridges. From where he sat, he could see the borders of his cleared ground. The place looked smaller than he had remembered, and he wondered if it was a common trick of the mind to make memories larger than they should be.

  When he had gotten better control, Elan edged around the clearing, scouting the woods the way Rob had taught him. The hour of extra caution calmed him, and when he was satisfied that he was alone, Elan felt ready to move on in and look things over.

  He found himself unable to examine much until he had seen the grave and had thought about it for some time. He had tried to bury Ellie and the boy in one grave, and neighbors had completed the job for him. Looking at it now, Elan guessed his idea had been right even though his thinking had been fogged from a head blow.

  When he could, Elan turned to the cabin, but there was little to see. The place had probably been burned to salvage the nails, which were valuable along the frontier. Jack remembered the burden of carrying them on a special trip to Carlisle and back. It was
about twenty-five miles across the Blue Mountain, and loaded down it felt a lot longer returning. The nails had about broken him down, but without nails a cabin was always crude. Elan looked further and saw that his un-nailed outbuilding was already sagging from neglect. Winter had been hard on everything.

  The smallness of the cabin’s foundation shocked him. Building together, creating a place of their own, he and Ellie had not felt cramped for space or that they were living extra poor. No doubt their dreams and their plans for adding on to the cabin when their family grew large made close quarters unimportant. Elan was sure that being in love made the great difference, and his throat got tight, and he could feel tears back somewhere behind his eyes. As usual, drumming grew in his head and pushed the choked feeling aside. Anger and hatred rose in him; his thoughts became hard and returned to his plan for killing Heart-Eater.

  There seemed little else to see around his place. A few garden vegetables were pushing their tips through, but weeds were already taking hold. The thought crossed that unless someone got working at keeping the field cleared, a few years would fill in the clearing and no one would know that there had been a living place in the valley.

  After a while, Elan hunkered on the end of Conococheague Mountain and looked over his place. The ground he figured to learn was not too large, perhaps four hundred acres or so. He would live on it. He would make his fires big and never try to hide a track. His roaming would leave his marks everywhere. If he could not track the Eater when he came, Elan planned to make so many tracks and trails that Heart-Eater would do no better.

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  Time ran together for Jack Elan. He hunted enough to keep alive but stuck close to his small valley. He ate mostly small game and grew leaner on it. The thought of corn meal or fat pig meat could turn him nearly sick with desire.

  The countless chestnuts, walnuts, and butternut trees gave him an endless bounty of gray squirrels, and sometimes Elan thought he had never eaten anything else since he had left the Shawnee village.