Ironhawk (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series Book 6)

by Roy F. Chandler

  They hurried the meal, and Ironhawk crawled onto the horse. Quehana's explanation to the household of their finding the Shawnees' trail and their hopes that they could trap the captors along the river were hurried. But Ironhawk was gratified that Quehana spoke as if they were equals and did not describe everything as though Ironhawk was simply a burden.

  The youth recognized that Quehana did not need him, and that if he did not work at keeping up he could delay Quehana's efforts. That, the Hawk resolved, would not happen.

  Although he held his head high and attempted to show confidence, the heart of Ironhawk was weak with fear for Bright Morning. They could not be sure that the Shawnee would treat a white woman with respect. Perhaps they did not plan to surrender their captive unharmed to whites, as Quehana suspected. Perhaps . . .? The mind of Ironhawk dared not reach too deep into the terrible possibilities.

  Despite his efforts, his fears rose and twisted his mind. Visions of torture and personal assault ravaged Ironhawk's thinking. If only she could live! And that she might not was his greatest fear.

  The Hawk hid his terrors from the eyes of Quehana because they would do no good, and other facts were certain and unchangeable. He would search for Bright Morning until he found her, and whatever had been done to her would make no difference to his love and acceptance of her. Bright Morning, his lodge sister, his companion since memory began and his only love, would remain his despite the Shawnee or whoever else tried to stand between them.

  Quehana led them down the notch and onto the Little Buffalo trail. The way was familiar because Ironhawk had twice traveled the route, but the Arrowmaker loped along the path as swiftly as if he were going only a short distance. After the first mile without a slackening of the pace, Ironhawk realized the truth of Quehana’s belief that he could not have kept up.

  Never had the Hawk seen anyone run with the ease of Rob Shatto. Quehana’s body did not rise and fall the way most runners’ did. From the waist up he seemed to glide ahead, as if he had wheels instead of legs. Quehana's feet lifted only enough to clear obstacles, and his heels did not kick up behind. The rifle was carried in the left hand at the balance of the piece with the muzzle pointing ahead. Quehana's elbow did not bend, which allowed the rifle to hang at arm's length and avoided tiring the bicep.

  Ironhawk could see how, in a single stride, Quehana could shoulder and grip the rifle with his right hand, his thumb earing back the hammer, and his finger slipping into place on the trigger. The movement would be panther-quick and as smooth as a bird in flight. The Hawk compared Quehana to his oldest brother's movement through the forests and realized there could be no reasonable comparison. Quehana was a warrior, his brother only a hunter.

  The two barreled pistol lay snugly in the small of Quehana's back, and the tomahawk on his hip was balanced by his pouch and horn on the other. Because of Quehana's smooth striding, nothing bounced or rolled clumsily. Even riding, the youth's own tomahawk had already chafed a raw spot along his hip, and Ironhawk decided that he would learn to run as did Quehana.

  Only a short way along the creek, the sky again darkened and rain and wind once more assaulted them. Quehana paused only to drape the flap of his loincloth over his pistol and to cover the lock of his rifle with a greased square of soft hide. The protection might keep his priming powder dry, but there could be no certainty.

  Ironhawk removed his bow string and secured it in a saddle bag. A wet string would stretch and be nearly useless. He could only hope that the long-dried arrow shafts would not warp when the rain soaked them.

  Skin clothing could be unpleasant when wet. The leather could smell, it could become greasy, and it could stiffen and chafe when it dried. The Hawk had grown up wearing skins, and he had never seen Quehana in white clothing. At Quehana's insistence, he had donned a doeskin shirt. Quehana was right. The Hawk's untanned skin had burned to a deep red and if not protected, would soon blister.

  Quehana had abandoned his leather pants, and now ran only in breechcloth and moccasins. The skin of Quehana was as brown as any hide, and if he had not known, Ironhawk would have believed him a Delaware.

  Surely, The Warrior must have looked much like Quehana when he ran within these same forests. The Hawk's father, Tree Shadow, had said that The Warrior never walked if he could run, and so he had become unmatchable on the trails.

  Ironhawk wondered if Quehana practiced with the same intent. A few yards ahead of his horse, the powerful figure whose shoulders seemed twice the width of any others, and whose arms were as thick as a bear's, ran as effortlessly as most would walk. To Ironhawk's knowledge, the best runners were always slender men who lacked great strength in their bodies, but here was a single exception, and Ironhawk, not for the first time, marveled at his good fortune in having such a friend.

  Wise had been his father, Tree Shadow, when he sent his youngest son to council with the Arrowmaker.

  — — —

  Only moments before they had reached the river, Yellow Jacket had felt the rain coming. He urged his party ahead, and they came to the hidden canoes before the first blasts of wind drove rain upon them.

  At Yellow Jacket’s order, the canoes were hoisted, and everyone sought cover beneath them. They would wait out the storm in some comfort, and Yellow Jacket felt safe in resting without a guard because they had moved more swiftly than he had expected, and no one would be challenging the storm.

  As leader, Yellow Jacket was more than satisfied that if anyone had been following, the trail would be lost in the storm. Their moccasin prints, detectable only by a skilled tracker, would be washed away forever.

  He ordered a small fire to be raised beneath the canoes' protection, and meat was heated over the few burning twigs.

  It was Yellow Jacket's plan to attack the river as if it was an enemy, and strength would be needed. The current would be against them, and he wished to travel more swiftly than men could march along the river's banks.

  In taking to the river, the party would be seen, but they could ignore attempts at conversation and paddle on at their best pace. They would seem only a party of Indians returning to their village from the lands of the whites.

  When they left the river, Yellow Jacket would leave no marks, and he would hide the canoes far from the water where they would not be stumbled upon.

  His greatest danger would now be from those for whom he worked. The trader Sheene was not a white to be trusted, and just as he had his own plan for the Sheenes, so it was possible that the trader and his sons would have a similar scheme for cheating the band of Yellow Jacket.

  The camp of the Sheenes would be approached with caution, and their own camp would be hidden and never be without their eyes watching the forest.

  — — —

  At the Juniata River, Rob first sought a lay-about white who occupied a tumbled shack near the most popular ford. As expected, the man tended a long fishing line that spanned the river. From the crossing line, a series of short lines dangled in the water each with a hook and bait. When enough fish were caught, the loafer waded into the shallow water and re-baited his hooks. The fisherman's great worries were floating tree limbs or even logs that could sweep away his crossing line. Therefore, he was seldom far from the river's edge.

  Ironhawk could see that Quehana's savage appearance made the fisherman nervous, but they had met before, and the man answered readily enough. No canoes or rafts had crossed his line this day, and he had seen no one on the opposite path. Rob was the first he had spoken with since two lights past.

  Discouragement settled like a cloud upon the spirit of Ironhawk, and he barely registered the fisherman's final thoughts on the matter.

  "There was two canoes full of Injuns that took to the river from this side—almost at the northern turn they was. Didn't hardly catch a look at 'em, but there could a'been three or more in each canoe.

  "Went upstream, they did, an' they was paddling hard—like they had some place important to go."

  The man shook his head. "I don't
like it when there's Injuns around. A man can't never tell what them Redsticks is goin' to do."

  Ironhawk's heart leaped, and he could hear satisfaction in Quehana's voice as he asked, "How long ago was that, do you figure?"

  "Oh, that was early on. Been more than three hours back."

  "Able to tell whether they had dugouts or bark canoes?"

  The fisherman ruminated before answering.

  "I couldn't really see the boats, but they moved out right quick, so I'd guess they was bark canoes." He added with a condemnatory headshake, "Them dugouts is slower than slidin' mud, 'an just hell to work upstream."

  Rob agreed, and with a cold smile to Ironhawk, he turned upstream.

  "It will be the limper and Bright Morning, Hawk. We have gained on them."

  Rob hurried his search along the west bank, but it seemed long before he found the Shawnees' marks. The camp was obvious, and Ironhawk was off his horse and looking as quickly as Quehana.

  Rob did the explaining. "They got here before the rain. You can tell by the drier ground where the canoes were held over their heads, and they raised a fire and ate." Ironhawk could see all of that.

  The footprints of the limper and those of Bright Morning were also clear. Rob simply pointed them out before he stepped to the river edge to examine the launching points.

  Nothing could be seen upriver, and Ironhawk knew the Shawnee would be far around many turns ahead. The fisherman claimed the Shawnee were paddling hard, and it was doubtful that even Rob's swift run would gain on them.

  Quehana believed the same.

  "We won't be likely to catch them soon, Ironhawk. What we will do is keep getting closer by working harder and longer than they do."

  Rob pointed across the river. "The trail on the other side is better than the trace over here. We will ford the river. Then we will move along steadily.

  "Our problem will be in knowing if they quit the river on either side, and we can't waste time looking for tracks. What we will do is try to find settlers along the river who might have seen the canoes passing. If some haven't seen canoes, we can look to see if the Shawnee took to the woods before reaching the people we are talking with.

  "This land isn't the way it was even ten seasons ago, Hawk. Back then, I had the place mostly to myself, but since the fighting stopped, people have moved here in piles, and a lot of them like living along the river.

  "That's a good choice for them. Traveling is easiest by water, and there are likely to be fish to eat most of the year.

  "Most important to us is that anything happening on the river is of interest to them, and settlers are always hungry for news—especially about Indians.

  "When the canoes pass, people will see them. Children never miss anything, and they will run to their folks with the news of passing Indians. You can count on it"

  Ironhawk was counting on it, but he thought of the multitude of valleys that lay around them in tossed about splendor. A thousand armies could be hidden within the Endless Hills, and Ironhawk feared that a six person party could disappear forever.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fording the Juniata was clumsy with great slipping and stumbling across rocks hidden beneath the surface. Care had to be taken that the horse did not wedge and break a leg.

  The path on the east or north bank caused Quehana to curse.

  "Only a few years ago this was a fine traveling path, Ironhawk. The people of many tribes passed this way for a hundred generations. The path was kept open by parties who hacked at foliage as they walked and used fallen limbs for fires. Everyone was pleased to encounter a firm path without trees and vines blocking the way, and most helped keep the trails open.

  "Now, few families use the paths. Whites travel most often by canoe, and if they are on land they use horses and sometimes wagons, which chew at the trails and create ruts and mud. Nothing is better since our people came to this land."

  Ironhawk realized that Quehana grumbled because he wished their pace to be swifter, but he, too, could remember when trails were better and when there were lodges in many places filled with people who welcomed travelers and enjoyed exchanging stories of all that was happening.

  For many seasons, the lodge of Tree Shadow had been placed further along this trail, and Ironhawk hoped to come onto the lodge site to see how it had fared and how well his memory of the spot served him.

  These had been the lodge sites when The Warrior had visited. How exciting those times had seemed, but now his memory of the greatest warrior was dimmed by the powerful Quehana who trotted tirelessly ahead of Ironhawk's stumbling horse.

  Night was again falling, and they would be able to go little farther. It was always best to camp before the light failed, but not until the mount could no longer find its footing did Quehana point to a small clearing beside the trail. Grass grew there, and the horse could graze on it. A trickle from the mountain would provide water, and time would not be lost regaining the path when morning came.

  They chewed Flat's pemmican and sought their blankets. Ironhawk doubted his busy mind would allow sleep, but he immediately drifted away.

  Rob's mind, too, was engrossed in the difficulties before them, and he remained awake for much longer. To Ironhawk he would appear confident, but the problems were many, and their luck could turn. Weather alone could defeat them by removing all traces of passage and keeping river dwellers indoors where they would not see passing.

  The matter of recapturing Bright Morning was not as certain as it might seem. Taking a captive alive from five Shawnee braves was not to be taken lightly. Once, he had defeated five Shawnee by killing four and wounding one who fled in terror. Then he had attacked their camp with his pistol and his tomahawk. He had shot and chopped them before they could respond, but that had been then, and this time would surely be different.

  — — —

  The Sheenes also hurried themselves. Old Zach drove his sons and their animals at the best pace they could manage. Chek and Chok grumbled about no need to hurry, but Zach feared they could be wrong. Rob Shatto had entered their scheme, and Zach had heard too many tales of the Arrowmaker's prowess in the forests to ignore the frontiersman's presence.

  From what Zach had heard in Carlisle, Shatto had worked out their clever passing-off of Bright Morning and track-disguising as if they were children's games. Now Quehana was on the trail of Yellow Jacket, and he would not be loafing.

  Zach saw only one way to stop Quehana, and that would be a terminal finish— and good riddance. He had planned to remove Shatto from what would become their woods, anyway, so he would just move that plan to the front. What Zach Sheene needed was The Animal.

  There was no telling when The Animal would appear, but it should be soon. They would have to be near their arranged meeting place, of course, because that was where The Animal would look.

  Zach had planned on four days before he met with Yellow Jacket. Instead, he would hurry, and if the Animal was waiting, having Quehana following the Shawnees could simplify everything.

  Zach had sent Chok hurrying ahead to arrange for a portion of their trade goods to be brought across the Susquehanna from Harris's station, He would have preferred to travel unloaded, but the Shawnee had been promised blankets, and they would be expectant.

  He had been torn on whether to cross on Harris's ferry and later ford the Susquehanna beyond its joining with the Juniata. Large rafts were being run as ferries just above the rivers' blending, but the big river could still be troublesome, and it might be advantageous to stay on the west bank and to pass behind Baskinsville where the rivers joined. If they were seen, he could again announce the Iroquois beyond Shamokin as their destination.

  Crossing the Juniata would be routine, and further north the Juniata Path had become a wagon trail, and decent time could be made along it. Two days, Zach figured, and they would be in their old camp.

  — — —

  Movement in the pre-dawn brought Ironhawk awake. Against the light of the sky he could see Quehana m
oving about, and the Hawk knew instantly what he was seeing. In his youth, The Warrior had performed such exercises. Ironhawk lay unmoving and watched the Arrowmaker with interest.

  It appeared to Ironhawk that Quehana assumed unusual positions of arm and body, and then tightened all of his muscles until they stood out in effort. He held a position for only moments before moving to another, and as the light rapidly improved, the Hawk could see a sheen of sweat on the frontiersman’s massive body.

  Ironhawk doubted that he had made a sound, but when Quehana spoke it was with knowledge that his companion was awake.

  "Rise, Ironhawk. We should be on the trail." The youth attempted to move quickly, and Quehana ceased his stretching to watch.

  Ironhawk groaned in anguish. His muscles protested every movement, and even his bones seemed stiff with frozen joints. His attempts to bend were those of an ancient, and Rob chuckled in amused sympathy.

  "The muscles of the Hawk have not been used in this manner for too long. Do not despair, each day will become easier."

  Quehana again chuckled. "Perhaps you should begin exercises like my own."

  Ironhawk continued his painful bending, feeling the beginnings of improved mobility.

  "I have seen The Warrior move in your manner, Quehana."

  "Yes, my lodge father, E’shan, told us that The Warrior practiced many such exercises, and E’shan taught his nephew, Shikee, and me how to use them. In our youthful days we labored at the exercises hoping to become as strong as The Warrior.

  "Shikee’s body is lean, much like your own, Ironhawk, and although he grew in strength he never became large. A man with large muscles must exercise them or they will shrink and become soft. E’shan told that The Warrior learned from watching the great mountain cats, and I stretch and tense as much like a panther as I can."

  Only a little way along, a clearing had been opened along the river, and the cabin-family was dramatic in their description of two canoes filled with Indians that had passed almost as night fell. The family had closed their shutters and held their muskets in worry at having strange Indians that close with darkness closing in.