There had existed the possibility that Bright Morning had gone willingly, but the scuffs and tramplings of her struggle erased the thought.
The girl had been dragged from sight. Then she had been hurried through the woods. The single captor had pushed her ahead, and Rob saw her stumbles and extra-long steps when he shoved her.
Bright Morning's high woman’s heels had punched deep marks in the soil, and Rob knew for certain that the kidnapper was not attempting to hide or disguise their route.
It was equally obvious that the capture of Bright Morning had not been a casual attack. Planning and cunning had been used. Rob was certain from the length of step, size of boot, as well as the strength used in overpowering the girl that he was dealing with a man who knew exactly where he was going and what he would find there.
The captive’s route met a dim woods trail and turned on it. Only a little way further the tracks became muddled at a small clearing but were clear in their direction thereafter. Rob frowned, and his voice was soft in a quizzical, "Humph."
Hurrying to catch up and more than a little distracted by Fritz Baumhauer's continuing questions, Ironhawk heard Quehana grunt, but the frontiersman continued along the trace pausing only to encourage those following not to further obliterate Bright Morning's footprints.
The fact was that William Hawk was nearing the end of his strength. He had ridden and run forty miles since the sun rose, and his knees were trembly with pure weariness. He had to struggle to hold his concentration, and he feared that he would soon have to sit down or he would fold in mid-stride.
They had eaten and drunk during their ride, but Ironhawk's thighs were chafed from the saddle, and two large spots on his rump had been worn raw. With exhaustion, hope had dwindled, and he followed Quehana more in resignation than expectation. He saw nothing different in the tracks, and doubted even Quehana's skills could detect more.
At the mounting spot, Rob saw the shoe prints that had brought questions to Ironhawk's mind. Sharp were the youth's eyes, for not many would have noticed. Clearly no one else had, but Rob had little respect for village dwellers' woods abilities, anyway.
Almost casually, Rob retraced his steps until he and Ironhawk stood just within the forest near where the trail had started.
When he was ready, Rob said, "I have seen things that will interest you, Ironhawk." The brightening of the boy's weary features hurried his explanation. Baumhauer, too, said something, but Rob paid no attention. The blacksmith could be no help in what he was about to reveal.
Rob said, "Here are Bright Morning's shoe marks. I know that you have examined them closely."
They moved ahead to the small clearing.
"Here there was much activity, and some effort was made to remove tracks."
His attention sharpening and hope returning, Ironhawk looked. The marks were there, but he would never have noticed them. The scuffing, he saw, was not accidental. A boot had deliberately stirred the soil as if to . . . Quehana was again moving ahead.
"Notice again the tracks of Bright Morning, Ironhawk. Are they not different?"
Stunned that he could have missed something obvious, Ironhawk looked closely, but he saw nothing . . . until . . . Then he had it.
"The stride is longer, Quehana. Each step is much longer." He sought Quehana's eyes for meaning, but Rob had knelt and was pointing to particular marks.
"Look closely again, Ironhawk, and you will see that now Bright Morning's left foot turns out sharply as it strikes. Before the clearing, her foot landed straight ahead as a step should."
It was true, and Ironhawk could feel his heart thudding. Still unsure of what the difference indicated, he heard in the voice of Quehana that something important had been found.
Quehana returned again to the small clearing. He studied the tramplings for a moment before his eyes rose to the forest beyond. Ironhawk heard him chuckle in a tone so grim that it raised the youth's hackles.
Then Quehana turned to speak in English directly to Ironhawk and the confused Baumhauer.
"We are dealing with a complicated scheme, my friends, and it is not yet all clear, but let me explain what I see here.
"Until this clearing, there is little mystery. Bright Morning was taken and marched here." Rob's finger pointed.
"But at this spot changes were made. From here on, someone else wears Bright Morning's shoes, and that someone went to the horses, mounted, and rode away."
Rob spoke clearly to the astonished faces.
"Do not despair because that is good news. On the great pike our chances were few, but if Bright Morning is within the forest, our opportunities are many."
Rob lifted his chin toward the woods to one side. "There, I believe we will find marks of Bright Morning's passing. Others now have her, but step carefully because they will walk lightly. These will attempt to hide their passing because their plan is to make us believe that Bright Morning has gone with the horses."
The lowering sun made visibility poor within the trees, but Rob quickly found what he hunted. He motioned Ironhawk to his side but restrained the clumsy-footed Baumhauer with a raised hind. "Remain there, Fritz. This trail too may be false, and we must not destroy any traces."
For many yards the pair worked at the faint marks of passage. Rob grumbled, "Too many others have passed through this woods, Ironhawk. I will be pleased when we reach wilder forest."
Quehana spoke truly. Gatherers of twigs had worked here, and children had played their games as well. Ironhawk could find little, but Quehana pointed out marks and fresh turnings. At a damp place the tracker put his eye close to the ground and studied long before rising to stand looking at the forest ahead.
"The light is turning poor, Ironhawk, and we cannot follow much longer. I will guess that we follow five. One of them walks like a woman. Her steps are small, and her feet strike each in front of the other, where a man's tend to stride wider apart."
Quehana's voice tightened. "Of course, they are Shawnee." He sighed, "It is always Shawnee. I wish that we could be done with them."
Ironhawk was impressed. He had judged that they followed Indians, but he had not identified the moccasin prints, and to know that one was a woman—the woman had to be Bright Morning—the confidence of Ironhawk soared.
Quehana opened his hand and offered a few threads of decent linen. "I picked these from a thorn bush." His finger gestured back the way they had come. "It is almost certainly from the dress of the woman in this band."
Ironhawk could not tell, but he expected that the widow Pratt would know the cloth. It was Bright Morning, he was sure of it, and she was somewhere in the forest ahead of them.
Shawnee working with whites to deceive followers? Ironhawk could make no sense of it. He guessed that Quehana did not either, or he would have spoken.
Rob said, "There are cabins ahead, and I do not believe this party will pass near them. To the south there are more cabins, but to the north there is the mountain. I believe they will turn in that direction."
He fixed Ironhawk with his eyes. "Soon the last light will be gone. I believe we should move swiftly ahead to the mountain road. If they cross the road we may find their tracks. If we fail, we can begin again here with the dawn." He seemed to wait for Ironhawk's approval, so the youth quickly gave it.
Quehana struck a quick trot, and Ironhawk feared he could not keep up, but the distance to the mountain road was less than he had believed, and they pulled up at the edge with only the sawing of the Hawk's ragged breathing to hear. Quehana pointed one way and immediately took the other.
Ironhawk moved slowly studying carefully the edges of the rough wagon road. The remaining daylight was nearly gone, but he had scouted only a short distance before his throat caught, and he saw marks where a number of moccasin wearers had left the forest and had crossed to the mountain side. He called sharply, and was pleased that Quehana came quickly.
Rob motioned for Ironhawk to take up the new trail, but to the Hawk's surprise Quehana chose to disapp
ear into the woods along the back trail.
It quickly became too dark, and despite his hunger to proceed, Ironhawk returned to the road. He mustered his best hawk's cry to let Quehana know that he had returned, but there were long moments before the tracker reappeared.
Quehana carried the dress of Bright Morning in his hand, and for a horrible instant Ironhawk feared that his lodge sister and only love was dead, but as he drew closer, the Hawk saw satisfaction on Quehana's hard features.
Rob handed the dress to Ironhawk, and there was certainty in his voice.
"I can't doubt that this is Bright Morning's dress, Ironhawk. The Shawnee jammed it in a hollow tree. I sort of guessed they might do that before venturing out where whites might pop up any time. They smeared her with some kind of coloring, too. It is on the dress corner. It smells like butternut, but it is getting so dark I can't tell much more."
Ironhawk held the dress to his face allowing her scent to fill his soul.
"It is Bright Morning's dress, Quehana."
Rob grunted, but his smile was a snarl.
"The dress was shoved in careful and covered with bark. It ain't like a Shawnee to throw away anything as valuable as this dress, so they figure to come back for it maybe a long time from now, but if we miss 'em somehow, we will get them here later on." Rob turned and started for the village.
Ironhawk caught up, and Rob said, "These Shawnee have been told just what to do. I'm sure of that because snatching white women isn't their way right now, and hiding clothing is not their manner any time. These people are being powerfully rewarded for what they are doing, and that is purely strange.
"Then there're the white men who are involved. There's got to be at least two. One grabbed Bright Morning, and another had the horses. Just who they are and what they’re into will have to wait, but it occurs to me that they must be the ones behind all of this, and if that is so, they will show up sooner or later to claim Bright Morning. That seem sensible to you, Hawk?"
Ironhawk was so tired he could barely mumble agreement.
Quehana said, "We'll sleep at Baumhauer's tonight and be here when the sun rises."
Then Rob pulled up and stared at the dark of Kittatinny Mountain rising to their right.
"That's where they are going. They wouldn't take this route to go anywhere else.
"So, maybe we can try knocking off a few miles of chasing by heading for the mountain summit and picking up their trail at the top."
He glanced down at the struggling youth.
"I reckon you won't mind riding up the mountain instead of hiking it, will you, Hawk?"
Chapter Sixteen
In Shawnee, Yellow Jacket's name had been Bug that Stings, but George Croghan, the Indian trader had called him Yellow Jacket, and The Bug had adopted the new name.
In both the French War and the war of Pontiac he had fought as Yellow Jacket, and during the latter conflict he had acquired a yellow vest of durable cloth that he wore as identification.
Yellow Jacket's expulsion from his village and the society of most Shawnee had been the result of killing while drunk on white man's rum. Until then, Yellow Jacket had been a warrior of respect. Now, he was an outcast without family or village, and he possessed only what he could carry or hide in the forest.
That he had killed his own brother and the woman of his brother while stupefied with rum sorrowed the heart of Yellow Jacket, but that had happened nearly two years past and he expected to rise again within the ranks of his people.
Without war to gain honor, only possessions could now mark a man of importance. As only the whites could provide iron and the cloth held by Shawnee of wealth, Yellow Jacket had turned to the traders who ventured deep into the lands of the Shawnee.
From the simple task offered by the trader Sheene, Yellow Jacket could gain a step on his path to prominence. To accept a captive and to keep her hidden for only a few suns deep within the forest was no task at all. Yellow Jacket was pleased to receive a small iron knife for the equally simple deed of wearing the woman's ridiculous foot coverings for a short distance. Whites had too much of value, and they sometimes paid too well for what they received.
The secretiveness of Zach Sheene told Yellow Jacket that the trader was engaged in stealing that his people would not allow. The ways of whites were strange, but it was clear that Sheene intended to have the woman as his own, and when Yellow Jacket delivered the captive, other whites should know nothing of Sheene's whereabouts.
Within the stealing, Yellow Jacket saw opportunity. When he counciled with the Sheenes, he judged that there would be only three whites at the exchange, and he formed his own secret plan. Yellow Jacket accepted Zach Sheene's gifts with his lips smiling, but his eyes marked the spot where his tomahawk might sink into the trader when they next met.
When they again counciled, the Shawnee would number five, and their surprise could be complete. The band of Yellow Jacket would kill the three Sheenes and the captive woman. If the Sheenes fought hard it could even be that one or two of the Shawnee would die, and that would enlarge the share of trade goods that the survivors would divide.
Yellow Jacket would be careful that he would not be one of those who might not live, and he pondered the thought that if enough of his band fell, he might be able to kill the survivors and have all of the trade goods for himself. With horse loads of possessions, Yellow Jacket could travel swiftly far beyond the Ohio country. There he would raise a lodge and choose maidens of great beauty with whom to share.
Yellow Jacket trotted without haste to join his band along the mountain Kittatinny. He did not hurry because the white trader had judged that four suns could pass before he would be at their meeting place. Until then, the prisoner must not be recognized as white, and she must be kept strong and healthy.
Yellow Jacket smiled as he hurdled the road that climbed the Blue Mountain. Already the woman would be stained as dark as any Indian, and she would wear the clothing of a Shawnee woman. With caution they would move along a course already selected, and no one would gain a close look at the woman.
Their route would be north across the mountain and up the Juniata River. Once beyond the Blue Mountain, a great detour had to be made because the lands of Sherman’s Valley belonged to whites and there were cabins. Most dangerous was Quehana of the Delaware, and Yellow Jacket’s leg ached at the memory of the attack on Quehana's stone lodge.
He had come as part of Two Nose's band, and they had struck like fire from the sky. He had killed first and taken the scalp of a white working in the fields, but then all had turned sour, for Quehana had not been trapped within the lodge, and the voice of Quehana's gun had begun to speak from the forest around them.
He and others of the band of Two Nose had placed themselves tight against the lodge of Quehana where those inside could not reach them, but from above boiling water had been poured, and all had been scalded. In agony they had fled, and in so doing exposed themselves.
As Two Nose wore the skin of The Warrior over his body they believed that he was protected from injury, but Two Nose had also died before Quehana's gun, and Yellow Jacket had limped away with a bullet in his calf.
While he had suffered a wound, his closest friend had died, and Yellow Jacket had withdrawn and begun a long march back across the Endless Hills to their village along the Allegheny River.
Perhaps he had been fortunate, as he had been wounded early in the battle by someone shooting from the lodge. Quehana's bullet would have struck more than his leg. Although he healed well, the foot of Yellow Jacket now turned outward when he stepped.
Quehana still scouted his valley. That word was passed because Quehana requested it of those he encountered. Yellow Jacket would stay far from the deadly rifle of Quehana of the Delaware.
He rejoined his band at the base of the mountain, and after carefully checking the woman's bonds, Yellow Jacket led the climb. He had chosen a steep and high crossing where no one else would travel. In leading, he required a distance of many stride
s between himself and his party. If he came upon others, his call would warn his people, and they could melt away undetected.
A path wove along the mountain crest, and Yellow Jacket would pass beyond it before they camped. When they neared the path, he would warn each of his men to leap across and not leave tracks. The woman would not be able to leap so he would simply carry her along the path for a short distance. A searcher would find only a single pair of moccasin prints which would mean nothing to anyone.
Not that there would be searchers. The plan of the Sheenes was good, and there would be no pursuit.
— — —
Ironhawk had slept heavily, but at Quehana's call he rose ready and anxious to begin. Fear for Bright Morning chewed at his stomach, and he was annoyed that Quehana wasted precious time shaving his face while speaking at seemingly great length with Fritz Baumhauer.
While he shaved and saddled their mounts, Rob explained to Baumhauer all that they had discovered. He asked that Baumhauer announce that Bright Morning had not been taken by whites after all, but that Indians had her. The blacksmith could show the dress as evidence.
After spreading the word, Baumhauer was to watch and record the names of anyone who immediately decided to leave the village. It was possible, Rob believed that an accomplice could still be in the village listening and informing.
Baumhauer strongly doubted that part, but he had no explanation for the horses and the faked shoe prints.
He would help where he could—and if Rob happened upon his horse he would like it sent to him. Rob agreed to keep an eye out.
The Hawk stilled his impatience, and when they mounted, he discovered that Quehana's timing had been correct, and they could travel in the first light without danger to their mounts.
Ironhawk (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series Book 6) Page 16