Song of Blue Moccasin (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

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Song of Blue Moccasin (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 8

by Roy F. Chandler


  Again, Blue Moccasin moved-this time to a place almost above the more common listeners, as though to draw them closer within his thoughts.

  "Now, whites fight among themselves. Strangely, a single tribe, the English, war against a part of their own people. Those who live across the salt sea fight those who live tightly against us.

  "Some of the English of this land defy their great council beyond the water. The whites kill each other to decide who will lead."

  Blue's laugh was both questioning and disdainful.

  "Foolish are the whites. Many will die. What will be changed? Will the deer be more plentiful if one wins, will the corn grow more ears for the other?" He seemed to ponder.

  "Do white corn growers even know who sits at their great council far across the salt sea?

  "White leaders seek power. They require the deaths of brave farmers. They call for burning cabins and destroyed fields. They cause the weeping of women and the crying of children for fathers who will never return.

  "For what?

  "For nothing! The moons will pass as will the seasons. The killing will change nothing."

  Blue concluded. His hands which had talked with his words fell with a finality as convincing as his voice.

  When he again spoke, Blue Moccasin chose a lighter voice, still warning, but skipping quickly as though his mind darted among important points.

  "Later, I can tell of happenings among whites within their great villages. We will speak of important things. Some will bring smiles, others may cause frowns.

  "But first I must bear warning. Those who serve the English king wish to draw the Iroquois into their war. Those who fight the English king ask that the Iroquois remain at peace and permit whites to war with whites. Which request is more reasonable?

  "Some claim the Iroquois could regain land while whites look elsewhere, or that important rewards will be heaped upon the Iroquois people in return for sacrificing young men in a white war.

  "Is either true? We answer that each is false. Whites, no matter who they serve, always seek Iroquois land. It has been so since their arrival. It will be so as long as the moon passes or the rivers run.

  "White gifts are never free, nor are they rich rewards. How many have sold their furs for less than their value? Most nod agreement. Has anyone grown richer from English presents?" A few leaders appeared discomforted, but the villagers again agreed with the speaker, for they received nothing.

  Blue continued, "English gifts are rum, which turns the Iroquois' minds and makes us foolish. We are given a handful of damp gunpowder and are expected to be pleased.

  "Once I heard of a plan to send many red blankets and handsome blue blankets as gifts." Eyes brightened. "But the blankets were taken from whites dead of small pox and the black puking sickness." Horror replaced avarice, and Blue drove home his point.

  "Why then have they not done so? Because the Iroquois confederacy has not fought them in war. Surely blood had flowed and scalps taken, but as a people, the Iroquois have not warred with whites.

  "Others have. Where now are the Delaware? Scattered forever. The Shawnee? Driven west and scattered. Even the Tuscarora, who are now part of our league, were driven from their lands because they warred with whites. Lost forever are the names of tribes who chose the war trail against the guns, the numbers, and the evil sicknesses of the whites.

  "Beware of white promises.

  "Beware of English gifts.

  "Do not trade the lives of young men for words.

  "Remain at peace, here on rich Iroquois land.

  "Grow stronger, even as the whites weaken themselves."

  Blue Moccasin's features softened, and like a sun through clouds, his smile broadened forcing lightness into the minds of his listeners.

  "Whites are like head lice. They are a continual annoyance yet difficult to be rid of. But, if the English fight among themselves long enough, they may destroy each other, and The People will be free of them."

  Then Blue clinched his argument. "Beware, however, for among the English there are words believed humorous.

  "The English say, 'Bravely we will fight for our Iroquois brothers. Bravely we will fight to the last Iroquois.'

  "It would please the English if Iroquois warriors took the war trails. When the warriors were victorious, the English would profit. If the Iroquois lost, the English would suffer no pain.

  "What are the English to us? Kind fathers, beloved brothers, favored uncles? None of these. Whites are whites no matter their tribe.

  "Remember the truth of these words when some dance and chant and claim Iroquois gains in white wars. White wars offer only death and mourning. Avoid them."

  +++

  Blue Moccasin gave no more advice in the fire circle. He spoke of visits to the white cities by sachems of other tribes. He repeated amusing stories he had heard and twisted ancient incidents to fit his current audience.

  Later, Blue gathered older children to spin new versions of honored tales. He spoke of his travels with Friendseeker the Delaware, who had once guarded the Iroquois gate. Soon elders joined to hear-to remember times of their youth.

  "Once, the south gate of the Iroquois league lay at Shamokin. Before the days of our memories, Long Moon, a known fighter, held the gate. The son of Long Moon was Oak Neck."

  Among the old, there were nods of remembrance.

  "A powerful fighter, Oak Neck was rarely challenged by enemy parties. The son of Oak Neck, Turned Ankle, followed his father and defeated the Cherokee in a fierce battle that turned the Cherokee away forever.

  "Friendseeker, the Delaware, then protected the gate. Quehana, too, stood between the Iroquois and our enemies."

  A thousand tales, Blue Moccasin could spin of Small Warrior, who became Young Warrior, to be finally known as The Warrior. In telling, no feat was too great, no task too difficult, no obstacle insurmountable.

  Blue Moccasin had sat with The Warrior. He had shared meat and run the forests with the fighter as only one other had.

  Blackhawk-known to The People only through The Warrior's telling-lived also in the tales. As mighty as their greatest fighter, the Hawk's skin was as black as the stone that burned. Skin color meant nothing; adopted sons and daughters of many colors were Iroquois. Some believed that Blackhawk was of the Seneca, although the Onondaga also claimed him-as they tried to claim everything.

  Beloved were the stories of strength, courage, and loyalty. Seated cross-legged among his listeners, Blue Moccasin spun his dreams almost hypnotically. At times, he rose to stalk an enemy or to drift like mist through a sleeping camp. Eyes glistened and tongues forgot to moisten drying lips. The song of Blue Moccasin filled the hearts and minds of the people of the Iroquois.

  +++

  Rob enjoyed the sweat lodge with faces known from earlier times. Naked, the men sat on peeled log seats, occasionally dousing hot firestones to create cleansing steam.

  Quehana's whiter skin, where protected by his loincloth, evoked no surprises and no concern. Mixed blood was common and accepted as natural. What mattered were the spirit and the heart of Quehana. His story was known and none doubted.

  Like a pack leader among pups, Quehana loomed above his companions. Their strongest arms appeared stick-like beside Quehana's. Serpenty muscles coiled beneath a skin weathered by many suns. Truly, the body of Quehana resembled an oak. In his grip any would suffer, yet his motions were quick, like a hickory snapping back. It was good that Quehana stood with The People.

  In the sweat lodge thoughts drifted, and the men spoke of hunts and past adventures. Old names surfaced and raised appreciative or derisive laughter as handsomely described memories were repeated.

  Few were the stories of the living. A thinker wondered if a man required death to gain appreciation. Perhaps a line had already been drawn by the Great Spirit, and happenings since that time would never become honored tales.

  The heat began slowing thought, and it was time to leave the sweat lodge.

  Dusk was touching T
ioga, and families visited and strolled about the village center. The distant whoop and shriek of children rose and fell but did not intrude. Loud behavior was banished where adults gathered. Smoke rose in lazy spirals from many cooking fires, and the rich scents of roasting meat caught appreciative nostrils. Blue Moccasin mesmerized a huddle of younger couples, no doubt with gross exaggerations, Rob thought.

  A major attraction was a group of vigorous men who grappled in wrestling close to the river. Heading that way to cool and wash their heated bodies, the sweat lodge participants paused to watch the struggles.

  The wrestlers vied in pairs. Bouts were good-natured, if seriously undertaken. Defeat was measured by fall or pin as the combatants chose. Proud in their abilities, men applied their tricks and strengths with vigor. Challenges were thrown and met. A champion had quickly emerged, and Rob gathered that he was the regular victor in the Tioga village.

  For their wrestling, the men chose strong names. One was wolf; another became snake. As might be expected, Wolf struck and circled planning his attacks carefully. The Snake was sinuous like a serpent, and his holds slid quickly one to another. Buffalo was champion. Head down, heavy legs straddled for balance, Buffalo plowed into his opponents, grappled, and out-muscled their many efforts.

  Watchers groaned with their favorites and moaned with defeats or cheered victories. Undoubtedly, there were few surprises. Iroquois youths wrestled constantly, and these contestants had met a hundred times before. The evening's activity was encouraged by the presence of Esther's Town wrestlers. Strengths did change, and it was exciting to strain against old adversaries.

  Proud in his victories, heated by the contests, and certain of his solid strength, the Buffalo's eyes measured carefully the great size and corded body of Quehana, the Arrowmaker.

  Large was Quehana, but could he wrestle? Most of giant size were slower, and many relied on strength and had not learned the tricks and balances of wrestling. Quehana, the killer of Shawnee, was of an earlier time, but to wrestle him would give honor to the Buffalo. To defeat Quehana would polish the Buffalo's reputation.

  Rob could see it coming. To challenge the largest was always popular. If you lost, well, the other was bigger. If you won, your star shown for having licked the larger.

  Inwardly, Rob grinned. How certain was the one calling himself Buffalo. He even pawed the ground like his namesake. Buffalo was the big fish in this small pool. A quick drubbing might restore the Buffalo's perspective.

  White's, too, wrestled, and Rob Shatto had always been known as one worth coming against. To end too frequent challenges, Rob only wrestled an opponent once-unless he lost, of course. Then Rob howled for a rematch. Even the best could lose. A slipped foot or a new hold could put a man on the bottom, but Rob's foot had not slipped for many a bout, and new moves no longer appeared. Whites rarely knew Indian skills, but Delaware and Iroquois holds and grips were part of Rob's bag of tricks. Challenging wrestlers left Shatto's valley with dirt on their backs.

  A monumental exception had been a monstrously misshapen physical freak called The Animal who in hand to hand combat had been far too powerful for even Quehana to handle. Although repeatedly wounded, The Animal had leaped from ambush, and still overmatched Quehana's usually dominating strength. Locked in a death struggle, the combat was ended by the strike of a youth's iron tomahawk that sank deep into the skull of The Animal. Rob Shatto had been days recovering from the battle and was unfit to wrestle anyone for weeks thereafter.

  That fight to the death had been more than a decade past, and Buffalo was not The Animal.

  This wrestling was in fun. Men tested each other without rancor. If Buffalo challenged Quehana and Quehana accepted, it, too, would be a struggle without anger or savagery. Injury was not intended, and the memories would give pleasure.

  Blue Moccasin reported that The Warrior could not play at wrestling. As a youth, he had once joined the competitions at the Warriors' marks on the Juniata. He had excelled leaving contestants broken and twisted. Thereafter, he had never been known to join in mock combat. Rob Shatto enjoyed wrestling. He was good at it, and if Buffalo wished to test himself, Quehana would swiftly cool his fervor.

  Rob caught Buffalo's gaze and raised a quizzical eyebrow. Buffalo's response was immediate. He drew himself erect and thumped a fist against his chest. He looked only at Quehana.

  A sweat lodge companion muttered, "Ignore the sprout, Quehana."

  Rob laughed softly. "Sprout? Buffalo is no child."

  Barefoot, wearing only a loincloth donned before leaving the sweat lodge, Rob required no preparations. He breathed in crisp air to clear any hints of the lodge's steamy lethargy. He could feel the rush of anticipation experienced before most contests. Buffalo waited, and Quehana wished to test him.

  Blue Moccasin appeared at Rob's side. His words were to the point-trust Blue for that.

  "I have watched him, Quehana. He comes straight ahead. He grapples and uses his legs to tumble his opponent. On the ground, he is quick and strong. Buffalo is not easy."

  Keeping his half-smile, Rob moved onto the torn sod of the wrestling place. Observers chose sides, and bets were cast. Sometimes preliminaries were many with pretended insults and exaggerated posturings, but neither Quehana nor the Buffalo bothered.

  Rob circled, and the Buffalo assumed a crouch. Closer moved Quehana, and Buffalo tensed, arms raised and ready. Unexpectedly, Rob clapped his hands. Startled, Buffalo blinked, and Rob's fist knocked on his heavy skull.

  The crowd hooted in appreciation, and Buffalo attacked. He charged low, head leading, strong arms hooked for clutching. Buffalo's legs spread wide for balance, and he bellowed his favorite angry bull roar.

  Right and left, Quehana feinted movement. He gave ground almost nonchalantly before Buffalo's charge, moving away while his attacker shifted balance to meet the feints.

  Slowed by Quehana's faking, Buffalo's charge lost power. Instantly Rob slapped his open palm against Buffalo's forehead and held it there. Buffalo pawed at his opponent, but Rob's extended arm held the shorter-armed Buffalo away. For a moment, they danced about, Buffalo struggling to reach Quehana's elusive body, while held at bay by the palm on his head.

  The crowd hooted amusement as supporters shouted encouragement. Irritated, Buffalo struck at Quehana's extended arm, but the hand stayed in place. Angered and frustrated, Buffalo swung powerfully at the offending arm intending this time to drive it away. But the hand was gone, and the weight of his blow carried Buffalo's arm almost across his body.

  Buffalo knew his mistake. His swing had exposed his side. Back came the arm, and straight again was the Buffalo's attack, but it was too late.

  Quehana moved with the Buffalo's blow. His arm fell away. He slid past his opponent's body and was suddenly almost behind the Buffalo. Dart-swift were his movements, so quick that watchers later argued how he had acted. The move by Quehana was new, none had seen it. Only Buffalo did not enjoy it.

  Buffalo was heavily muscled, but a fat layer concealed the muscle and gave him a sleek, well-fed appearance. Rob's left hand snatched a full grip on the smooth fat just behind the Buffalo's neck. In Rob Shatto's blacksmith hardened fist, the skin stood up in a ridge and was certainly painful.

  From behind, Quehana's right arm slammed between the straddled legs of Buffalo and grasped the loincloth belt at the navel. Straightening upright, Quehana hoisted Buffalo until only his victim's toe tips scratched at the ground. Without foot purchase, the Buffalo could not balance, and using the fat grip on his neck for direction, Rob began moving the struggling Buffalo away.

  Anguished, frustrated, almost hanging in helplessness, Buffalo thrashed. Bent forward and held in the iron grip, his hands reached nothing. His lashing feet were ignored, and the Buffalo roared in outrage as his captor's pace increased.

  The crowd saw the direction, and their excited howlings shook the village. The distance was short and slightly downhill. Muscles of a size unseen since The Warrior's time swelled Quehana's body, and he co
ntrolled the churning Buffalo as surely as he could have a child.

  Straight to the river's edge, to a spot with a slight overhang they rushed. Even more violent became the victim's throes-to no avail. With his own wild and savage victory screech, Quehana launched the Buffalo as he would a heavy stone. Flailing futilely, Buffalo was air-borne before he struck the Susquehanna in a resounding splash.

  When he surfaced, Buffalo snorted away the water and stood, as usual, spraddle-legged, hands fisted on hips. For an instant his expression was blank, and the gathering watched to know his reaction. Then, the Buffalo smiled and tossed his head in laughter. The response was right. The young bull had tried the herd leader and had lost-lost without room for argument. Men clapped hands in approval.

  Rob knew what he should do, and he stepped forward to do it. He caught Blue Moccasin's understanding nod and hoped that others would not know as readily.

  Standing on the overhang, Rob stretched a hand to help Buffalo from the river. Smiling, still shaking water, the Buffalo accepted. Then, quick as a switch, he heaved mightily. Quehana's squawk of surprise blended with his own flight through the air ending as his great body splatted the river surface and sank from view.

  Even sober elders slapped thighs at the sight. Squaws were doubled in laughter their cupped hands hiding their mouths.

  Quehana reappeared, hands first, palms held forward in the peace sign, waving frantic demand for no more. Quehana's grin was as wide as the Buffalo's, and they sank together, shoulder deep, to wash away the sweat of battle.

  +++

  Tioga had lodges for visitors, and before they slept, Quehana and Blue Moccasin judged their progress.

  "My words did not sway the chiefs, Quehana. Their minds are hardening. War is a distant memory, and only the excitement is remembered. The honored tales do not speak of broken bodies and grieving squaws."

 

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