During daylight, Elan scouted the ridges measuring distances and ranges, and learning the placement and shadow of every bush. Most nights he was abroad, moving in dark and by moonlight, studying how it all looked when seeing was poor. As he got used to the lay of things, Elan traveled short distances with his eyes closed, learning the feel of the woods and trying to sense rocks and trees before he reached them.
During his scouting, Elan attacked the Eater from a hundred ambushes and sought him out in a hundred more. He played at being Heart-Eater and tried to catch an imaginary Jack Elan unaware. The games helped, and he adopted a habit of moving his sleeping place each night after dark so that no enemy could know where he lay.
The daily potting of squirrels sharpened Elan’s shooting eye, and he began taking the small animals while they were moving and using only head shots. His confidence rose, and he began to believe himself capable of matching the Eater—if he came.
If the Heart-Eater came! There was always doubt that the Shawnee would bother. Heart-Eater could even be dead or more likely interested in other things. Elan tried to bury the nagging suspicion that Toquisson might ignore Blue Moccasin’s words and was even now about his hunting and warring without a single thought of the Deathgiver who had taunted him. The lurking doubt made Elan work even harder, for if the Eater did not come, Jack Elan would have to go for him.
Elan’s hard-won confidence in his ability to scout and know all that happened on his place took a sharp drop the day he looked up from skinning a rabbit to see Rob Shatto and Blue Moccasin standing as solemn as owls not forty feet away.
Jack’s pleasure at seeing the two friends was tempered by their ability to come up on him undetected. It only helped a little when Blue told of hearing his rifle shot and spending considerable time slipping up just to startle him.
Elan absorbed another lesson. Thereafter, when he took game, he spent his own time scouting around before he approached the fallen animal, and if it were small game, he carried it far away before cleaning.
Rob and Blue Moccasin were struck by changes in Jack Elan. The weeks of hermit-like existence had again leaned his body, his hair hung long and unkempt, and his leather clothing was worn and stained. Elan needed a change, and both Rob and Blue were pleased when he agreed to accompany them to Robinson’s fort.
They traveled at an easy lope that built into a hard run before the first cabin at Robinson’s appeared. Rob led the way with Elan following and Blue Moccasin bringing up the rear.
As the miles unwound beneath their driving feet, it was plain that Rob Shatto was testing Elan’s ability. Rob ran smoothly with a long, easy stride that was matched by Blue Moccasin behind. Sandwiched between the two, Elan drove ahead with his own short, chopping run. He bounced a lot and supposed that he looked awkward, but when Rob drew them to a panting halt, Elan was still there and felt no more tired than the others looked.
Chest heaving, with sweat streaking his face, Rob grunted a satisfied, “Waugh,” and slapped Elan’s shoulder. Blue moved up beside them and let his tongue hang drolly, and his knees sagged and quivered.
In his most affected English voice, Blue said, “Strolling in the forest with Rob Shatto is quite relaxing, don’t you think?”
For the first time in many months, Elan felt a laugh form in his throat. The tiny drummer forced it aside, but the thought slipped through that maybe, after the Heart-Eater, there could be something else for Jack Elan.
+++
The few cabins beyond Robinson’s stockade showed the wear and tear of Indian attack. There were signs of rebuild after fire, and some appeared to have been assembled from remains of other structures. When a raid occurred, settlers within reach fled to the protection of the stockade with its strong blockhouse and stored provisions. They left cabin doors ajar and carried their possessions in their arms or on barrows. They always rushed because announcement of hostiles was usually already late.
All of the cabins were small and were plainly intended for temporary shelter, not as permanent homes. The times were too chancy to build permanent around Robinson’s fort.
The Robinson stockade lay to the west of the Allegheny trail, and war parties leaving the safety of mountain strongholds could, as they always had, run swiftly along the ancient path and strike the settlement with little warning.
The Robinson clan had come over Blue Mountain to claim land and to farm. Their intention was to build close to the path so that white travelers would visit and perhaps purchase Robinson products. The outbreak of Indian war had caught them, and as stubborn Scots, the families refused to retreat to the safety of Carlisle, less than thirty miles to the south.
Unlike most settlers along the frontier, the Robinsons had not been totally unprepared. Their first act had been to construct a blockhouse. Their hope had been, with the attraction of the blockhouse’s safety as a lure, to induce others to settle nearby.
The stockade had been built using the blockhouse as a corner, and crude shelters had been thrown up inside the vertical-logged stockade to shelter those seeking safety. The Robinsons had endured hostile attacks and savage ambushes. Men and women had been killed at Robinsons, but so far, this spring, war parties had not appeared.
The Robinsons were continually pushing the forest back, moving its edge away from their fort. The open fields yielded crops that might be harvested in some safety, and the cleared space denied concealment to prowling savages.
A rifle-armed sentinel saw the travelers as they broke from the timber. In a moment, Rob was recognized, and those working in the fields resumed their labors.
George and Robert Robinson greeted Rob’s party at George’s cabin, closest to the fort’s entrance. With Indian menace still hanging along the frontier, visitation by anyone was rare and welcome.
Robert Robinson spent most of his time in the woods hunting and scouting, and both Rob Shatto and Blue Moccasin recognized Robert as the only truly capable woodsman among all of the Robinson clan. Rob was pleased to have encountered Robert, because his view of conditions was always worth hearing.
George Robinson was, however, the leader. George was a bit older and a dozen times steadier than the always active Robert. George did the planning, and Robert did his best to fit in with his less adventurous clansmen.
Meeting both Robinsons was also fortuitous because Blue carried letters and word messages from Philadelphia and Carlisle for both men.
The group settled their backs against the stripped poles of the stockade and let the warm sun beat on them a little. Elan felt a special comfort among these hardy frontiersmen, and he experienced a touch of pride that he was welcome in their council.
Elan’s attention was immediately taken by the pallor of his skin compared to the others. Of course, Blue Moccasin had an Indian’s complexion, but Rob and the Robinsons were darkly tanned.
Elan thought about it as they talked and supposed he was pale from always seeking shadows and dim places. Sun meant the open, out where he could be seen, and Elan could not afford that. Still, his white face and hands would show more than a tanned skin would. Elan adjusted his plan to allow time to sit in the sun and let his color darken.
Chapter 15
At Robinson’s
The Robinsons listened intently to Elan’s description of his capture and escape. Although they had heard the story from others, Jack’s first person account made many points more clear.
Blue Moccasin spoke of the Eater’s impotent rage at what he thought was Elan’s escape and death in the wilderness. The listeners “Waughed” in satisfaction, and they grinned wolfishly at Blue’s re-enactment of giving Elan’s challenge to the astonished and embittered Heart-Eater.
Elan’s plan to lure the Heart-Eater to the cabin site demanded serious thought, and George Robinson got out a pipe, and they took turns puffing on it. Elan observed that both Rob and Blue merely roiled the smoke in their mouths, enjoying the taste but not inhaling. Unused to smoking, Elan did the same and found the pungent tobacco less unpleasant.
The Robinsons sucked deep and billowed smoke clouds from both nose and mouth. Elan thought smoking would quickly dull the sense of smell, and both body and clothing would reek of tobacco. He was relieved when George knocked the dottle from the pipe and put it away.
Neither Robinson thought much of Elan’s plan. They were plain in their opinion that if a Shawnee came, he would win. Then, they disliked the idea of inviting hostiles south of Tuscarora Mountain for any reason. Robinsons had been taken captive by Indians, and raiding savages had killed other Robinsons.
They understood Elan’s hatred for the Heart-Eater, and appreciated his courage in seeking vengeance. No one from their settlement had ever contemplated such a scheme. The Robinson’s would help where they could, but they recognized that their aid could be little more than resupplying Elan’s small needs of powder, ball, and a little corn.
The discussion fell into consideration of what the Eater might do. Despite their repeated defense of their settlement against marauding hostiles, the Robinsons knew little of Indians. It fell to Blue and Rob Shatto to speculate on how the Heart-Eater would probably act. Elan became a rapt listener as each opinion offered could affect his very existence.
Blue Moccasin chose to speak in the almost formal way of Indian council, and Rob followed suit.
Blue said, “I believe the Shawnee, Toquisson, will accept the challenge of Jack Elan because his spirit was torn by the messages spoken before his own people.
“Heart-Eater will ask others to join him. Many will refuse, for they have no interest in Toquisson’s vengeance, and they know that the Eater is insane.”
Blue Moccasin’s smile was grim.
“Madness is often respected as the presence of spirits best left alone, and rare will be the Shawnee willing to accompany one so possessed on a trail of many weeks.
“However, Toquisson will find a companion or two. He will not come alone.”
“Blue has it right.” Rob added, “The Eater can hardly refuse. Blue Moccasin has spoken Jack’s challenge clean across the Six Nations, and Andrew Montour and George Croghan have passed word among some of the other tribes.
“As I’ve thought this over in the months since Jack made it back, I’ve come to believe that it is not a question of if Heart-Eater will come, but more like figuring out what he will do when he gets here.”
They were quiet for a moment visualizing the Eater moving East along the ancient paths.
Blue Moccasin broke the silence.
“Heart-Eater is both a warrior and a hunter, but he is not a man of great patience. He will not be foolhardy in his actions, but he will desire to see his enemy quickly. When he comes, he will not wait. He will search you out, Jack.”
Rob Shatto “Waughed” agreement before adding, “A fighter like this heart-Eater seems to be, is likely to be more than a little anxious to lay his hatchet alongside your head, Jack.
“It looks to me as if he might make a quick scout of your place then sit down and watch for sign.
“If you didn’t come by, he would circle around again. He would look for new tracks and try to flush you just like he would jump a deer from its bed.”
His listeners nodded understanding, and Rob continued.
“The way I see it, Jack, you’ve got to slide in there and nail him before he lays eyes on you. If you can do that, you will only need one shot out of that black rifle.”
Rob paused to weigh his words. “If, on the other hand, you see each other before there is an advantage, then maybe you can work your trick with the second barrel.”
Rob chuckled grimly. “I’d make that second barrel real accurate, if I was you, Jack!”
The men joined in the serious laughter, and Robert Robinson ventured his opinion.
“Seems to me we’re overlooking something—that being our agreement that this heart-Eater won’t be coming alone.”
Rob agreed, “True enough. The Shawnee will no doubt have company. The thing to do is to see them first, and after poking a ball through the Eater, light out running, and just keep going. It isn’t much like an Indian to follow far in such a situation. This is not friendly country for them anymore, and they will be reluctant to chase blindly with more than a little possibility of dashing straight into a party of whites.”
Rob cleared his throat. “Whoever is with Toquisson might be just as pleased to have it over with, and won’t chase at all. Anyway, we know that Jack can run with any of them. He knows the ground, and he can make for either my place or here, where help will be waiting.”
Blue Moccasin had been deep in thought.
“If it was my fate to war with the Eater, I would attack him with all speed. Never would I attempt to match his strength for his power is great.
“Yet, Heart-Eater is neither awkward nor clumsy. He is like a mature panther. He again moves with grace and strength, but he may lack the quickness of youth.”
Blue turned to Elan, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow.
“It could be, Jack, that you might confuse the Eater by forcing the fight, but your attack must hold surprise and be as swift as a striking snake, for not only must you defeat Toquisson, but you must avoid those who may accompany him. Yours is a mighty task, my friend.”
George Robinson had remained silent throughout the exchange. He had listened and weighed the comments. His thoughts closed their discussion.
“I suspect your meeting with the Heart-Eater will not take long. It will be swift and final for one of you. I surely hope you do him in, Jack, and right is on your side, but at best it will be a close thing.”
Robinson looked closely at Jack Elan, as though searching to understand him.
“An hour ago, I would not have given you much chance in this matter. The whole scheme runs against good common sense, but I see that you are deep and you run strong. It could be that you will do what has to be done.
“One last thing, Jack. If you run ahead of a pack of hostile savages in this direction, you come in hollering early and hollering loud so that we can be ready. Don’t come busting out of the forest right into the middle of a bunch of our women folk planting the fields or something.”
From Robinsons, Elan pointed Northwest trotting steadily with his chopping stride. His hunting pouch bulged, and a supply pack rode the small of his back.
Rob Shatto had left earlier, swinging to the East intending to hunt the Little Juniata Creek valley on his way home.
Blue Moccasin strode South from Fort Robinson. He had scrubbed the paint from his features, donned a cloth jacket and trousers, and wore a wool cap for his journey.
Elan had been astonished by the change the clothing made in Blue’s appearance. The Robinsons had immediately begun calling him James, as if to aid his transition from Indian to white. At their parting, Blue Moccasin or James Cummens looked far more the civilized man than did either Rob Shatto or Jack Elan.
South of Robinson’s fort, it was far safer for Blue to travel as a white man. Whites made few distinctions between Indians whether friendly or hostile. A fearful settler or hunter could be quick to shoot and question later.
With the drumbeat tapping rhythm to his driving legs, Jack Elan could let his thoughts roam ahead. The summer was already upon him. Though there were months until the Eater would come, he felt the press of time.
Elan jolted to a stop. Would the Heart-Eater necessarily wait until the corn ripened? Couldn’t he choose to come early and catch his enemy unaware?
Of course he could, and he might. There were no rules, and Jack realized that he had better awaken to that fact. Starting now, he would expect the Heart-Eater to step from behind any tree or rock. Jack Elan became even more serious about what he was attempting.
Already, Elan felt far removed from the clumsy settler who had lived in the small cabin. He had learned many things, and he ran his ridges with an accomplished ease that few could match.
Elan had learned to trot at an easy pace allowing miles to unroll without exhaustion setting in. If his breathing pulled or musc
les wore he had learned to ease back just enough to level things out. He carried his rifle hanging at arm’s length in his left hand, gripping it at the balance with the muzzle forward. The carry did not tire his arm, and the gun could be shouldered and aimed in an instant.
Only when expecting to shoot did Elan hold his black rifle with both hands in front of his body. Rob had taught him how to plant the butt plate in his shoulder and walk with the barrel slightly lowered in front. No hold was faster, but if he expected enemies from the sides or rear, Elan carried his weapon at the military Port-Arms slanting across his body.
Rob Shatto could shoot left handed, and Elan had watched him shift his rifle for a target to his right with his left hand at the grip and on the trigger, but that skill took years of practice, and Elan had to do without a left-handed advantage.
Rob Shatto’s belief that Elan could run with Indians was no small compliment. That he had held Rob’s pace through the forest pleased him. Rob could run a full day, and a few years earlier had chased five Shawnee to the summit of Ickes Gap on the mighty Tuscarora Mountain and killed four of them with pistol and tomahawk.
Elan opened his stride a little feeling the pull of effort in his thighs. If running was to be important to his plan, then he would increase his attention to it. Jack wondered how the Eater would react if he simply burst upon the Shawnee running full speed at him.
A chest-high burl on a tree caught his eye, and without hesitation he eared his hammer to full cock, leveled the rifle at his hip, and fired at full run.
Chips flew from the burl. Elan paused to examine the hit and found it to be near center. He moved well away and reloaded the empty barrel with smooth and quiet efficiency. He would remember the burl, and on another occasion he would dig out the valuable lead bullet.
Elan planned to tan his skin so that he would be harder to see. Perhaps he should daub his features with something like walnut juice, which would blend even better, and he would practice everything he had ever heard about until it all became as natural as breathing.
The Black Rifle (Perry County Frontier series) Page 9