Arrowmaker (Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Wrapped in his robe before sleep, Rob planned his attack on the rock ledge. Those who had gone before had only flint or wooden tools. He had steel, and if things went as he expected, E’shan was in for a surprise.

  Shikee dragged unwilling feet to the rock ledge as the morning sun first struck into the narrow valley, but his interest blossomed as he saw what Rob was about.

  Using their tomahawks, Rob inserted the sharp, steel edges within a natural rock stratum. Tapping the blades deeper with a stone while prying sideward with the two foot ash handles split off a long slab of flint just the right thickness. There was virtually no effort involved.

  Shikee trilled a lark call through his teeth and joined in the task.

  Within the hour, the youths had assembled a huge pile of the slab rock. Putting the second part of his plan to work, Rob studied a flint slab determining the slight grain direction within it. Carefully measuring his blow, he stroked his tomahawk blade solidly into the flint snapping it where he desired. He turned the narrow length he had created and snapped it in two with a single blow forming two perfect arrowhead blanks. Shikee again called; this time as a hoot owl, a bird recognized for its unusual cunning.

  Shikee fared poorly splitting the slabs, and it fell to Rob to do it all, but by noon far more blanks had been made than the party could carry. With feigned nonchalance they informed E’shan that their task was complete, but that they had made so many, all perfect of course, that he might just as well do his checking at the ledge. They watched with ill-concealed glee as E’shan stared at the immense pile of fine blanks.

  Although his amazement must have been confounding, the old man was equal to the occasion. Without expression, he informed the smirking youths that they had done well, and in view of their accomplishments they could go to the river and wash away the stains of their toil while he prepared the blanks for carrying.

  Rob and Shikee chuckled through their swim in the chill fall water and during the walk back to the ledge. Waiting for them with seeming patience was E’shan carrying nothing, of course. Fat and Flat bore the camp equipment, and placed to the side were a pair of gigantic backpacks of arrowpoint blanks. Unwilling to give the game to E’shan, they shouldered their terrible loads and grimly followed the grandfather down the trail.

  Unlike the easy stroll up the river, the old Indian swung downstream at a swift walk. Fat and Flat first cast sympathetic eyes at the youths struggling beneath their monstrous packs, but soon they too concentrated on merely keeping up.

  The party forded the Juniata and started up the Little Buffalo before E’shan saw fit to rest. Under the pretext of relieving himself behind a bush, he allowed the blowing and panting youths to ease their burdens and catch their wind. Recognizing their unwillingness to give in, and perhaps admiring their determination to see it through, E’shan set an easier pace, but it was long after dark when the chastened duo dropped their loads and stumbled to their sleeping robes.

  They lay exhausted, limbs trembling and backs aching. They secretly examined the many scrapes and gouges worn in by stone edges while listening to the contented suck of E’shan’s pipe, knowing that the miserable old devil was grinning to himself. Each vowed never again to attempt fun at E’shan’s expense. His revenge was too fiendish.

  Their last awareness before sleep took them was E’shan’s announcement that since the diligent youths had prepared far more point blanks than could be carried, they could return to the flint quarry the next morning and bring forth all that had been left behind. Rob’s teeth gritted, and he heard Shikee groan.

  11

  1749 – The Name Giving

  The Warrior came again in the short days of December. A companion first appeared to announce his coming, and E’shan’s family gathered at the hearth to greet the renowned fighter and killer of enemies.

  His bearing regal, The Iroquois swept into the lodge, and although painted as before, his deadly menace was for the moment dimmed. His grizzled and scarred companion stood aside as The Warrior sunk to his haunches beside E’shan. His gaze flicked from face to face stopping finally, and holding Rob’s eyes as a snake mesmerizes a mouse.

  A mighty arm extended a string of wizened objects, and Rob automatically accepted them, his eyes unable to leave those of The Warrior.

  The Iroquois spoke using the hollow, rasping Seneca tongue that came from the throat and barely moved the lips. All gave their full attention, but Rob understood none of it.

  As he spoke, The Warrior’s eyes held Rob’s, but his arms made no gestures. His voice ceased, and he uttered a final word flinging a pointing finger at the youth as if to impale him. The word was, “Quehana.”

  As though to burn his message into their very souls, The Warrior gazed deeply into each pair of eyes. Then he rose and was gone into the darkness. His companion soundlessly followed.

  There was silence in the lodge, and Rob found all eyes upon him. For the first time, his glance fell to the objects The Iroquois had thrust upon him. His breathing froze as he found he held a beaded cord carrying a half dozen human fingers. Wildly his eyes sought Shikee and E’shan’s, begging for an explanation of the words he had not understood.

  E’shan spoke proudly. “My grandson is greatly honored.”

  Shikee hooted his owl sound, his face awed and pleased.

  “The Warrior thanked you for the gift of magic arrowheads. He struck six enemy in the lands of the Dakota far to the west. Each enemy was taken at distances too far, but the arrows sped true. He brings you his gifts, the small fingers from the right hands of those your arrows slew. He asks that you make no more arrowpoints of bone, that he may be the only warrior to have used them.”

  Shikee paused, savoring the importance of the moment.

  “And, The Warrior, who may indeed be the son of the Great Spirit, gives you your name to be used throughout the Six Nations.

  “You are now, Quehana, which in The Warrior’s secret language means Arrowmaker!”

  12

  1751 – The Meeting

  Thomas Reed looked with satisfaction at the rising walls of his new building. He had chosen squared logs over the more costly brick. Labor was cheap, and timber free. Although these few years in Carlisle had been profitable, he was not one to spend loosely. A log building would last longer than he would need it, and he had no son to continue his business, anyway.

  Over near the fort, two Indians were watching the uniformed sentry march his post. With increasing tension over white squatters, the log stockade had been refurbished and a detail of soldiers assigned. There was steady passage of chiefs en route to Lancaster or Philadelphia for meetings, but the common Indian loiterers had disappeared. It was now unusual to observe Indians about the village.

  Reed did not like Indians much. Their eyes seemed too sharp, and he suspected them of patiently waiting for an opportunity to take his scalp.

  The two Indians moved closer, conversing in the smooth-sounding Delaware tongue, the taller savage doing most of the talking and pointing. They were clad in the usual breechclouts with hunting bags draped on the left hip. It made Thomas Reed irritable when grown men walked about with much of their bottoms exposed, and tomahawks and knives did nothing to gain his confidence.

  Their approach showed the braves to be quite young. Undoubtedly brothers, Reed supposed, but all Indians looked alike to him, anyway. The shorter Indian was terribly scarred along his chest, and he had daubed berry juice on the scars to make them more noticeable. Reed thought such displays utterly pagan and reminded himself that Indians were just that, pagans and savages. Humorless and merciless, they stunk of hides, smoke, and grease. He wished they would move on west, as many already had, and not disrupt the village with their presence.

  Unaware of Reed’s disapproval, the Indians approached the ordinary chattering together as though on an outing. They halted before the stoop where Reed unconsciously barred their entrance. The taller, a slight smile tugging at his lips, was about to speak when the white man’s irritation foun
d voice.

  “What do you want here? I do not serve rum to Indians.”

  The abrupt harshness of his own tone surprised Reed. He had not intended to sound so unfriendly. Embarrassed by his own outburst, he saw the beginning smile on the Indian’s face replaced by the blank mask he so regularly encountered. The black eyes glittered coldly, and Thomas Reed felt his belly knot under their scrutiny. There was a quizzical look about the taller savage, as though he questioned all that went on, and it took Reed a moment to recognize the look as a result of a forehead scar that slightly raised one eyebrow.

  The tall Indian spoke in Delaware to the scarred man at his side, and following a rapid exchange, the scarred Indian spoke directly to Reed in faltering and barely understandable English.

  “I am Shikee, Delaware of the Turtle Clan. My brother, Quehana, comes for powder for his gun.”

  Thomas Reed had powder and sold it through his general store attached to the ordinary. Although neither carried a musket, one brave wore a pistol above his naked behind, and Indians had been known to hide their guns before entering villages. Reed gestured for the Indians to follow him. His good wife usually operated the store, but bartering with Indians was a duty he took as his own.

  He placed a five pound keg of powder on his counter and addressed himself to the scarred Indian. “Here is powder. What have you to trade?” Reed doubted that he would see much as, except for the interesting pistol, neither Delaware carried or wore anything valuable.

  The tall Indian appeared to understand and drew an unclipped gold piece from his pouch.

  Thomas Reed took the coin with mixed emotions. Gold and silver were scarce on the frontier. Even whites were pleased to be able to offer or accept useful barter. The gold was worth far more than the gun powder, and he wondered if the braves even knew the coin’s value. He doubted so. Because they saw so little of it, English money confused most of them.

  Reed wondered where the Delaware had come across such a piece and decided that he would not care to know. Should he give the Indian full value? Who would know or care if he did not? His eye caught the taller brave’s quizzical expression, as though he too was waiting to see.

  Annoyed by his own temptations, Reed counted the proper change in shillings and pence and watched the Indian deposit them in his hunting pouch. Both Indians raised a hand and uttered the customary “Waugh” signifying satisfaction.

  A feminine squeal of delight jarred Reed’s senses, and with disbelief he saw his daughter Rebecca fly through the store entrance into the open-armed embrace of the tallest Indian. Appalled, disbelieving, stricken dumb with astonishment, Reed stared as the Delaware returned the embrace, exuberantly dancing them about the puncheon floor.

  When their enthusiasm at seeing each other calmed enough, Becky explained to her glowering father that this handsome brave was Rob Shatto, that she had recognized him by his pistol, that she had been hoping for more than two years that he would come back, and on, and on, and on until Thomas Reed won silence by raising both hands to indicate—Enough!

  As his temper evened, Reed felt his embarrassment grow. His comments about rum and Indians began to eat at his sense of fairness and honorable treatment of others.

  What could he say? How could he explain irritation and a little fear? Now that he looked, he could see white features behind the bronzed skin, and those black Shatto eyes and hair did disguise the young man’s heritage. Who would have guessed, anyway?

  Rebecca, that was who. The storekeeper silently blessed his decision to give fair exchange for his gun powder, for if he had not, Rob Shatto would have known. Reed did his best to explain, to justify, and he managed to believe that young Shatto was not overly offended.

  Reed’s interest in Rob grew. After living for two years among the savages, Rob Shatto would know a great deal about Indians. However, his efforts to draw Rob aside for serious conversation about Indian affairs failed as Rob had eyes only for Rebecca.

  Reed suggested they meet with some friends later in the day to discuss the situation and again found himself subject to Rob’s disconcerting quizzical gaze.

  “Your friend, Shikee, would also be welcome, Rob.” Reed felt the heat of embarrassment rise in his cheeks, but he held his gaze steady. He cursed his earlier outburst.

  Rob turned to the waiting Shikee, and they spoke in Delaware.

  “Shikee says he would rather wait in the forest, Mister Reed. He does not care much for our houses. When do you wish to meet? We do not intend to stay on this side of Kittatinny tonight.”

  “Well, two hours, about? That will give me time to get some people together. Here in two hours, then?”

  Certain that Rebecca would keep Rob occupied, Rob’s nod of agreement sent Reed hustling away.

  Shikee loitered for a few moments but, finding himself outside the reunion of Rob and Rebecca, he decided to wait near the ford on the Conodoguinet. Shikee cared for white men about as strongly as they for him. Shikee claimed they smelled of sweat and pig grease and talked through their noses.

  At fourteen, Becky Reed had lost much of the lathe-thin figure Rob remembered. The soft bosom he had crushed to his chest was that of a woman. Her sparkling effervescence overwhelmed Rob’s youthful reserve, and they laughed and reminisced at a frantic pace until they recalled the moment of Rob’s departure two years before. Then, at her insistence, Rob recounted his planning with David, the trip over the mountain, and much of what had transpired since her last glimpse of him from the garret window on the night he had slipped away.

  Rob was astonished to learn that when morning came, Becky had followed his wagon tracks to the creek ford, and that she had always known that he had gone into the mountains. It was Becky who had insisted that her father buy Rob’s horses from George Croghan, and she had listened as Croghan had explained Rob’s presence in the Indian country. Rob could not doubt that Becky Reed hung on his every word. Her uninhibited enthusiasm struck appreciative cords in his own spirit, and Rob found himself looking with awakened eyes at the desirable young woman who appeared so enraptured of him.

  They strolled to the Reed meadow to view Rob’s old horses. If the animals remembered their previous owner, they gave no indication, but the horses appeared well cared for, and they nuzzled Becky in expectation of a treat. Later, they sat for a moment on the weathered stump where the great anvil had been placed, and Rob told her of his intent to recover David’s body and the buried anvil as soon as he built his place.

  Becky Reed showed her interest in his hopes and plans for a home in the wilderness, and Rob found himself outlining his house plans in the dirt where two years before Simon Girty had drawn his map of the Indian country.

  Only in describing his activities during the preceding years did Rob feel constrained. To have flittered away two years of his life hunting, fishing, and roaming seemed suddenly capricious. He feared that he sounded like a typical woods runner who boasted of great schemes yet produced little, but Becky listened attentively to his descriptions of wilderness life and seemed pleased rather than dismayed by his apparent penchant to wait a while before settling down. Rob thought it unusual to find a woman who so well understood a man’s ways.

  With an eye on the sun, Rob regretfully decided it was time for his meeting with her father and his friends. Becky caught his hand in hers and pulled it tight to her breast, her liquid black eyes intent on his.

  “I won’t see you after your meeting, Rob, My mother will scold me half to death as it is for going off like this.”

  Her eyes were bright with emotion, and Rob felt her sincerity. “In two years I will be ready to marry, Rob. You will need a good woman to keep your house and give you strong children. I would like to live with you in your valley and share your dream and your life. Come for me in two summers, Rob.”

  Her hand released his, lightly stroking his face as though to imprint his features in her memory, and she was gone skipping child-like across the open lot while Rob sat stunned, sails aback, wondering at the accelerated
pumping of his heart.

  — — —

  When Thomas Reed introduced Rob Shatto to the small gathering, the meeting began badly amid unvoiced tensions and grew increasingly unfriendly.

  Justice Burger appeared aloof and condescending, as though having dealt with important people he found Rob only mildly tolerable.

  Although little older than Rob, Ensign Wheelwright, commander of the stockade’s small garrison, was stiff and hostile.

  A trio of village businessmen completed the group and added to the air of arrogance hanging over the meeting.

  As organizer, Thomas Reed began the discussion, and Rob immediately recognized the hostility of the participants. He thought of big frogs in a very small pond. Sorry that he had agreed to participate, Rob hardened his own attitudes and determined that he would give at least as good as he received.

  Recalling Rob’s reactions to his own intractability, Reed attempted to ease the clashes he also saw developing. His desire had been to utilize Rob Shatto’s insights to increase their understanding of conditions beyond their borders. Unfortunately, his fellow townsmen’s animosities toward Indians in general were overcoming their curiosity and could lead to a disquieting and unproductive confrontation. So, Reed made his tone warm and conciliatory.

  “Rob, it is not often that we can sit down with someone who has lived as you have within the Indian Nations. It might help us to understand our red neighbors if you would tell us how things in general look to you.”

  “What do you wish to know, Mister Reed?”