Arrowmaker (Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  “For the Indian, this land can hold only memories. There can be no happiness here for the Delaware. Although it causes pain in my heart, I know your choice is wise.

  “I, too, feel the pull of the Shining Mountains, my brother. Together, we could see them all as we did these Endless Hills. But that, too, is not to be. My place is here on the Little Buffalo. Here I will guard the bones of our grandfathers and wait to hear of the mountains when my brother returns.”

  Shikee nodded. “The mountains are far, Quehana, and each season the moons pass more swiftly. But, it may be that when my sons grow strong and fill their own lodges, I will come again to my brother, and the owl will hoot on the hillside.”

  “And I will tell my sons of Shikee, their uncle who fought the panther and now travels far, and who can tell but they may also journey to the great mountains.”

  Shikee did not return to the house. He turned west into Pleasant Valley, and Rob waited until he heard his mournful wolf howl from afar. He answered letting the notes trail long across the ridges.

  When he reached the house, William Miller stood looking into the forest. He said, “Wolves howlin’ awful close for this time o’year, Rob. Maybe it’s hostiles.”

  Rob said, “It’s all right, Will. They are heading away.”

  25

  1755 – The Shawnee

  Ginseng grew on the slope above the house, and Rob waved to Becky as, carrying her gathering basket, she crossed on their stepping stones and disappeared into the timber.

  The day was crisp, and Rob appreciated the warmth cast by his forge. James Wilson from Robinson’s fort had brought his musket in for work, and Rob found pleasure in making the repairs. Gunsmithing was a finer art than blacksmithing, and he enjoyed the delicacy of the labor.

  He worked steadily, fitting and trying. Flat left her tasks and stood in the open doorway looking up the hill in the direction Becky had taken. After a moment she returned to her work, and Rob lost himself in the repairs.

  Later, Flat again stood in the door, her eyes searching the hillside with open concern. Tension in her body caught Rob’s eye, and he became conscious of time’s passage. Not genuinely concerned, since Becky had her favorite spots where she often sat alone, he formed his hands around his mouth and called for her. He listened intently, but the forest returned only echoes. He called with more effort, feeling the first twinges of alarm touch his mind. No answering call came from the hill.

  The ginseng grew close. Becky knew better than to wander far. There was no reason for her not to answer. He snatched his rifle, checking his priming as he ran, leaped the stream in a bound, and followed Becky’s trail up the hillside.

  He found her basket close by. It had fallen from her hands, and the scattered leaves and moss showed where she had fallen. Struggling to contain the most awful fear he had ever experienced, Rob focused his mind to read the story imprinted on the forest floor.

  Five Indians had lain in ambush. Becky had walked unsuspecting into the midst of them. He saw where they had hidden behind trees. One had taken her from behind as she passed. They had all gathered round. She had been sitting in their midst. She was alive then!

  Rob searched frantically for blood sign but found none. The group had immediately moved away. Becky was probably gagged and bound to avoid any chance of alarm. He followed, gaining a clearer picture with each yard.

  The Indians were Shawnee. The distinctive moccasin pattern could not be mistaken. They had taken a course west. Becky marched third in line. One brave hung well back covering them against pursuit. Rob followed another hundred yards and found a two foot wide strip of Becky’s linsey-woolsey dress. The dress had been shortened to knee length allowing her to move much faster. The Shawnee, then, intended to take her prisoner—at least for the time being. The cold knot of fear settled into Rob’s belly. Becky’s life lay in his hands, and he stood alone against five warriors of the Shawnee nation.

  He turned and ran swiftly back to the house. Flat waited stoically. He told her of the Shawnee. The hour was early afternoon; Becky had been taken immediately upon entering the woods. Given a two hour start, the Shawnee were already far on their way. He prayed that Becky could keep up. If not, the warriors might kill her. Rob ripped the cloth shirt from his body and donned hunting doeskins. He checked his pistol and slid a pair of tomahawks through his belt, attached his long skinning knife, and was ready. He left the long rifle inside the doorway.

  Flat waited, a lean packet of dried meat in her hands. His instructions were in rapid Delaware. Call Will from the fields, and remain inside with the doors barred. The Shawnee could be part of a larger party. The plan could be to draw Quehana away from the lodge so that their strike would be stronger. Even now, the Shawnee might be returning with help to attack the house.

  He loped smoothly across the meadow. Unencumbered by the rifle, his stride was easier. His hope of coming up to the Shawnee before dark was small, but if he could determine their direction, he might continue after dark and pick up the trail with first light.

  He followed the Shawnees’ trail to his property edge. A brave had paused to relieve himself on Shikee’s painted totem. Rob spared a twisted grin. The knot in his middle was beginning to glow hot with anger. He fed the anger building it to a rage that drove power into his legs and gave strength to his body.

  The Shawnee made no attempt to hide their trail. They walked and trotted steadily west, Becky holding their pace. After a few miles, they crossed the headwaters of the north branch of the Little Buffalo and climbed the Middle Ridge. They had rested at the ridge top where they could see their back trail. They had been gone long before Rob hove into view.

  The Indians turned north and struck a small stream that fed into Big Buffalo Creek. Where the streams joined, Rob slowed to a walk, catching his breath and letting his mind work ahead.

  The Shawnee could swing west and fade through the Waterford Gap into Path Valley, or they could attempt to become lost to following in the fastness of the narrow Horse Valley behind Concocheague Mountain. However, they had swung further north than necessary for such courses. Rob guessed the band would cross the Tuscarora at the high Ickes Gap. He hesitated; if he guessed wrong, he would waste the night unable to resume trailing until light. He reviewed the lay of the land in his mind. He had come a strong five miles. The top of Ickes Gap lay another four miles ahead. The distance was not long, but the mountain reared high, and the climb was hard. Even now, the Shawnee, with an exhausted Becky in tow, might be nearing the top of the gap looking back across the valley floor for hints of pursuit.

  Once across the mountain, the Shawnee would feel safe and no doubt slow their pace. Rob judged an hour of full daylight left. Heading as the crow flies, he would have to reach the summit before dark or risk a fire to read the tracks. He decided he had little choice and broke into his long lope heading straight for the gap.

  Rob crossed the creek at the mountain base without breaking stride and began a long climb through the forest to where the great mountain reared skyward. Moving steadily, he angled across the mountain face saving his strength where he could but edging always higher.

  The southern slope already lay in shadow as the sun crept inexorably lower in the western sky. His breathing became ragged with strain when he forced speed from tiring muscles, and exhaustion plucked at his driving legs.

  Rob topped out a few rods east of the trail that followed the edge of the deep mountain cut. His breath sawed in his tortured lungs, and almost staggering, he hurried to the trail lest the failing light leave him stranded. He knelt by the narrow path letting his wind and muscle recover as he studied the trail for marks of passing. Sweat stung his eyes hampering his vision, and he angrily mopped at them with a shirt sleeve also sweat drenched.

  In a small depression he found what he sought, and he heard himself chuckle in bitter satisfaction. Becky’s footprint lay clear and fresh enough that dirt fell into the print even as he watched. He could not be more than an hour behind. He might be mu
ch closer.

  As he rose, the sun disappeared over the world’s edge, and darkness began its rapid descent. Rob walked swiftly up the path to the mountain summit. From there, the well used trail led down the north side of the mountain, and far below it would join the great Tuscarora Path, the main route that could be followed to the villages of the Iroquois many marches to the north.

  Rob believed the Shawnee would camp before reaching the great path. They had traveled far this day, and their captive would be exhausted. They would stop before darkness made wood gathering difficult. They would move downwind from the trail so that their fire smoke would drift away from path travelers, and sound of movement from the path toward their camp would be carried to them.

  Rob tested the wind and found that a small breeze blew from the west. He left the trail and moved east, then descended slowly, paralleling the mountain path. He focused his hearing and sniffed the air for a hint of woodsmoke to betray the Shawnee camp. His movements were as cautious and as soundless as those of a prowling lynx.

  He worked lower on the mountain. Full dark stalled his progress, but the moon rose and returned enough light to resume his search. As the hour passed, he began to fear miscalculation. Unpredictable at best, the Shawnee could have continued on or headed off the trail to a familiar and favored camp ground.

  He reached a small spring, the beginning of a north slope stream. He paused to drink, aware that he reeked of dried sweat and of the tension that tugged at his patience. It occurred to him that the Shawnee would also seek water, and that he might not be too low on the mountain after all.

  Rob had gone only a few yards when a low laugh froze him in his tracks, and he almost immediately saw a glint of firelight through the trees. A belated whiff of woodsmoke tickled his nostrils, and he sunk soundlessly to his haunches certain that he had come upon the Shawnee camp and reassured by the fire and laughter that his presence had not been detected.

  Rob squatted, letting his senses feel the night around him. The Shawnee had camped near the streamlet within a circle of tall pines where a thick bed of needles held back brush and provided soft beds.

  Becky slumped to one side of the small clearing. Her feet were tied with a rawhide thong. The sight of her legs clawed by thorns and streaked with dried blood stoked the banked fires of Rob Shatto’s rage. He restrained his urge to leap shouting and slashing into the midst of the Shawnee. When he attacked, it must be lightning swift and carefully planned. Indians often killed their captives rather than surrender them, and a melee might give a brave time to swing a tomahawk at the helpless Becky.

  The Shawnee fire was merely a few coals over which a single twig holding meat might be held. Three braves knelt by the fire, cooking in turn. It was their laughter that had first reached Rob’s ears. A fourth warrior lay wrapped in his blanket He could be ill or only tired. The fifth brave sat almost directly across the fire from Rob.

  The Shawnee warrior relaxed against a tree, and his eyes appeared closed as though he dozed. Looking toward the fire, he would see only darkness beyond.

  Rob planned his attack as one of surprise. He hoped to be in among the Shawnee before they could react. The far Indian caused him the most worry. The brave would be beyond his initial charge. If Rob faltered, the warrior would have time to attack either he or Becky. Rob saw no alternative, however. The warriors closest to Becky would have to be taken first.

  It had been long enough. His breathing had slowed, and his strength had returned. He let his anger ride higher, allowing the heat of rage and hatred to soar within, feeling its power flow into his muscle and sinew. Snake-like, he slithered forward into the protection of a pine at the edge of the clearing. With ultimate caution his hand crept to the two-shot pistol at his back. He drew it to him, careful to remain in the concealment of the tree, and slowly cocked each hammer, easing the lock and trigger springs so that there would be no revealing clicks as the hammers dropped into their trigger sears. Then, Rob rose to a crouch. He drew a tomahawk. He sucked in a deep breath and was ready.

  The giant creature burst into the clearing. A raging panther scream burst from its throat, and for a fatal fear-filled instant, Shawnee warriors froze in place.

  Rob fired a barrel into a brave at the fire and was instantly surrounded by lunging movement as warriors reacted. Rob’s second shot slammed into another body at the fire, and he hurled the empty pistol at the furthest Indian.

  His tomahawk was gripped in his left fist, and Rob smashed the flat of the hatchet into the skull of the third brave at the fire. The shock of the blow ran up his arm, and he felt bone crush beneath the blow, but he was already leaping toward the warrior wrapped in his robe. Rob’s second tomahawk was drawn and clutched in his right fist. The Shawnee struggled to escape his blanket even as Rob’s hatchet clove his skull. The tomahawk buried itself to the level of the warrior’s nose and stuck solidly.

  Rob jerked at the stuck hatchet before he could wrench it free with a mighty jerk that flung the dead Shawnee clear of the blanket that had trapped him.

  Instantly, Rob lunged toward the warrior who had been lounging against the tree. He expected to meet the brave’s charge across the clearing, but the Shawnee remained near the tree as though stunned by the spectacle. Acutely aware of the warrior poised as if waiting, Rob saw with unique clarity the painted features marred by rivulets where sweat had run and a complexion ravaged by the deep pitting of small pox.

  In a desperate lunge, Rob looped an overhand blow at the immobile Shawnee. The tomahawk fairly whistled as it descended with all of Rob’s fury behind it. Poor footing or a slight movement by the Shawnee destroyed the killing blow. The razored edge of the blade sliced into the skin of the brave’s forehead, split the nose cleanly in two, and ripped through lips and the point of the warrior’s jaw before burying itself in the forest floor.

  Sprawled clumsily from the partly missed blow, Rob clawed himself erect, his eyes searching for the Indian, but the enemy was gone. Crashing in the brush declared his haste and his direction. Momentarily, Rob considered running the Shawnee down. Then his mind cleared, and he turned quickly to Becky’s side.

  His sweat-soaked figure splattered with Shawnee blood, chest heaving from exertion, and flourishing bloodied tomahawks could have been terrifying. To Becky Reed Shatto, Rob had never looked finer.

  He slashed through her bonds. Seeing that she appeared unharmed, he listened for sounds of the fleeing Shawnee, but the night again lay quiet, and Rob felt the warrior would be fortunate to survive his ghastly facial wounds. He would be incapable of lying in ambush, and Rob’s glance showed that no life remained in the four Shawnee sprawled in the clearing.

  Becky sat where he had released her, clasping her updrawn knees with her hands. Her great eyes followed his every move as if beseeching him to tell her that she was really safe.

  Rob reached down and pulled her to her feet. Holding her close in his powerful arms she heard him ask, “Becky, are you all right?” She thought that she answered, and he said, “I came as fast as I could.”

  She thought of the Shawnee’s haste on their march and marveled how Rob could possibly have caught up. She felt herself beginning to tremble, and she clung tightly to him letting his body heat warm her soul and glorying in the feel of his arms about her.

  Rob held her tightly feeling the tremors that coursed through her. He stroked her tangled hair where it lay against his shoulder. He thought he must smell awful of sweat and dirt, but he was reluctant to let her from his arms.

  It had been a near thing. Fortune had followed him and made his choices right. A wrong turn, and Becky would still be in Shawnee hands while he stumbled futilely about many miles distant. He rocked her slowly, tight within his embrace, feeling the tension slowly drain from both of their bodies.

  They moved from the scene of slaughter, and Rob wrapped Becky in Shawnee blankets and held her close. He talked softly, soothing her into sleep, and when her breathing deepened and became regular, he still held her but let his min
d run back over the chase and planned ahead for what must now be done.

  For the first time, the lodge of Quehana had been attacked. Rob’s faith in his safety among the tribes was destroyed. It did not surprise him that it was the Shawnee who had ignored Shikee’s totems. The proud Shawnee showed little commonality with the Delaware.

  They broke their fast in the sun’s first glint. They shared Flat’s package of dried meat. Rob recovered his pistol, cleaned and recharged it, and placed it in Becky’s hands. Then he left her to perform the tasks he deemed necessary.

  The Shawnee lay sprawled in death as they had fallen. In four trips he carried and dragged the Shawnee bodies to the mountain trail. He gathered their weapons and brought them as well.

  He stripped the stiffened bodies of their doeskin clouts and cut the clouts into strips. Without emotion, he used a Shawnee knife to scalp the bodies and plunged the scalps into a small flowing spring to cleanse themselves.

  He cut a slot separating the Achilles tendon from the ankle on a leg of each Shawnee. He passed a length of clout through the slot and tied it securely around the ankle. A strong limb hung across the trail, and he hoisted the dead warriors until each swung by a heel, only their hands brushing the ground. He smashed their bows and arrows, tore apart their quivers, and split the handles of their tomahawks. He hid the iron tomahawk heads where he could recover them at another time. He wedged their flint knives into the crotch of a tree and with a mighty heave snapped each in two. He strewed the broken weapons beneath the dangling bodies. Into the oak from which the Shawnee hung, he chopped the form of Quehana’s iron arrowhead in a two foot high blaze. The message should be plain to all who passed.