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

by Roy F. Chandler

Rage, a hatred of all living things, flourished in the heart of Quinaday. He felt it growing, sensing its tendrils creeping vine-like through arms, legs, and around his beating heart.

  The rage told Quinaday to kill, and he did, often on war trails, occasionally in secret when his hatred overwhelmed him, and he could not stay his hand. Never had Quinaday returned to the abandoned village of Shickellamy, but he had listened when it was mentioned. He knew that a white lived there, growing corn in the fields of his mother.

  Now a warpath took him to the door of the whites. Quinaday's brain pounded with the significance of it. The war party would not pass unnoticed. Quinaday would strike and be gone.

  The killing would temper his warriors for what lay ahead. Quinaday would return by trails far to the west, where white searchers would not hunt.

  Soon, the Iroquois would spring like a thousand panthers from their many strongholds and slaughter whites in numbers uncountable. Butler had said it would be so, and Quinaday believed.

  Proud would be Quinaday's taking of the first scalps in the war that would drive whites far from the places they had stolen. Far from the graves of Quinaday's people.

  +++

  Before dark, the warriors crept within sight of the white's cabin. Planted fields surrounded the log house, but this early in the growing season the crops provided no cover for hidden approach.

  Children played about, and Quinaday was pleased that there were many. He hungered to attack shrieking war cries, but the whites would be inside with their door barred before he could be among them. Quinaday would wait and prepare. The whites could not escape.

  Camp was made in a dark hollow away from the cabin. Meat was cooked in the dusk and the fire quenched before darkness could reflect its glow.

  Quinaday left his companions to visit the grave of his people, but he had dug too close to the riverbank and flooding had washed all away.

  The Seneca vowed that the next light's current would send white bodies to follow those of his family.

  During the night, while his braves slept, Quinaday brooded. It would be gratifying to burn the cabin as the whites slept and kill as they fled through their door. But, the white man certainly had a gun and might kill a Seneca. The risk was unnecessary. The whites would rise early. Unsuspecting, they would open their cabin. Like wolves, the band of Quinaday would be among them.

  Quinaday dozed but roused regularly, judging the sky, ready to move to the cabin's walls before the false dawn appeared.

  +++

  Less than a mile from Hornsock's, Rob's foot came down on a toad. Undetected in the earliest morning light, the toad had chosen to rest in the natural footing of the trail.

  Rob's foot skidded without warning. Exhausted muscle and nerve reacted poorly, and he sprawled awkwardly, almost losing his rifle.

  The fall roused him from a stupor. He sat up, feeling and moving, fearful that something could have broken.

  In rising a knee twinged slightly, but otherwise, he had again survived intact.

  Enough, he had to rest. Hornsock's was almost within spitting distance. He would make it there and take the time he needed.

  Watching his footing more closely, Rob again managed a stumbling run.

  From the woods, many moccasin prints joined the river path. For a long instant, their appearance meant nothing. When their meaning did touch his exhausted mind, Rob jerked to an instinctive halt, then dodged, stiffened and awkward, into tree cover.

  Freshly alerted, Rob's eyes sought movement or color. No strange shapes loomed, and he believed himself alone. He dashed old powder from his flintlock and reprimed. He checked the flint for tightness and made certain the rifle's muzzle was clear of obstruction.

  The moccasin pattern was Seneca, and the wearers were five. Rob's hackles rose with the prospect that Quinaday and his warriors might be within reach. The tracks were fresh, perhaps an hour or two old.

  Quinaday, if it were his party, had camped nearby and taken the trail early. Yet--Rob studied the tracks more carefully--the band did not trot. The scuffs were as deep as heel prints, and that indicated the step of stalkers. They walked, and with caution, Rob thought.

  Hornsock's!

  The answer appeared in Rob's mind unbidden but undoubted. Quinaday, or whoever led, would attack the settler as soon as his door opened. It would be the usual attack. Hornsock would unbar his door and step out to greet another bright morning. Indian muskets would blast in his face or hatchets would strike him down.

  Could Hornsock hear a rifle shot from this distance? Would he be alerted? Both were possible. Rob eared his hammer to full cock and touched his trigger.

  Before Rob's finger could tighten, a distant musket shot broke the morning's calm. A ripple of shots followed the first, echoing hollowly up the river.

  Too late for warning, Quinaday or another war party had struck. If the cabin's security had been breached, the massacre was probably already over. Rob staggered into the best run he could manage. Distant screeching came on the southern wind but no gunshots. What did it mean?

  Were the Seneca frustrated by a barred door or was there no need for more shooting?

  If he were fresh, Quehana would have torn into the war party. Frazzled, without strength, Rob had to use caution. Still, if he ran hard, his unexpected attack could drive off the war party-if it were not already too late.

  Rob hoped his first shot would be at the warrior Quinaday, who wore his scalp roach crossway.

  17 Hornsock's

  Kurt Hornsock rose quietly and managed to change from nightshirt to britches without waking wife or children. Hornsock liked the privacy of early morning. Undisturbed, he could look across their fields and study the growth of the good things they had planted.

  In Germany he had also looked proudly on his labors, but in the old country, the land and its crops had belonged to another. Now Kurt worked fields of his own, and in their time, his sons would clear and plant their acres of Hornsock land. The Hornsocks would prosper because they were good farmers who worked hard at their improvements.

  The day would be good. Clear sky and no morning mists promised an uninterrupted workday. Hornsock studied the more than one hundred meters of field already cleared. Today, he would drop trees girdled a year before. Each season would see another acre cleared for planting. He could thank the Indians for his start, but Hornsock's own fires of burning logs would eventually clear fields to the very edges of his holdings.

  Someday, there would be Hornsock rafts, heavy with wheat, corn, and whiskey drifting downriver to Baltimore markets. Then there would be cash to buy more acres-west, away from the river-until the hills grew too steep for planting.

  He did not sense the killer that appeared silently behind him.

  +++

  Before light, Quinaday placed his warriors close against the cabin's sides. He chose the downwind wall so their scent would not warn the sleeping whites.

  Only Quinaday's musket was cocked. He would chance no premature shot that could turn the attack sour. After Quinaday fired, the others would strike with musket or tomahawk as they chose. If they were swift and merciless, the unsuspecting whites would have no chance to rally.

  For the killing, the warriors had painted ferocious slashes of black soot on their faces. The markings could raise fears and confusions and so reduce resistance. They were enough for this simple plucking. At the Little Buffalo, where the task would be greater, serious painting with harsh colors would be right.

  For the Little Buffalo, Quinaday planned a blackened head with vermilion at the eyes. Such a visage could turn a mind to stone.

  With patience, the warriors waited. When they heard the first stirrings within the cabin, Quinaday's finger rose in warning, and even tiny motions were stilled.

  Only the man stepped forth. Although he heard no other movement within the cabin, Quinaday waited, allowing the white to move from his doorway.

  Soundlessly, Quinaday's musket swept into line. Only a leap from the white's ear, Quinaday could
not miss.

  Quinaday yanked his trigger. With the report, the white's skull exploded, and his dead body collapsed in a shapeless sprawl. Dust sifted from the porch roof.

  Quinaday slid through his own powder smoke and was into the cabin straining to see in the windowless room. Behind him, muskets boomed as his warriors fired senselessly into the dead white's body. Then they were beside him, screeching fierce battle cries, and tomahawking dimly seen moving figures.

  Like demons, the four Seneca slashed at anything that might live. Ignoring his companions' frenzies, Quinaday stepped again into the open, reloading his musket and examining the distant wood line. Quinaday's caution was only instinctive. The forest had been empty throughout the night. The Seneca would be undisturbed.

  The warriors lurched into the brightening light. They flourished dripping scalps and dragged blankets and iron pots. One knelt beside the dead man and looked questioningly at Quinaday. The leader shrugged disinterest. The warrior quickly drew his blade around the white's skull and with a violent heave, jerked the scalp free. He held it high, screeching victory, and his companions joined in.

  Quinaday reentered the cabin. Scalped bodies of the woman and children lay about. A good knife rested on a log table, and he hurled it through the door for his warriors' recovery. Little useful remained. Quinaday kicked still glowing fire coals onto the puncheon floor and threw straw bedding onto them. Flames licked and grew quickly.

  Across the room there was movement. A small body wriggled. Although startled, Quinaday had it in an instant. From a bedding pile, he hauled a still barely awakened girl child. The Seneca held it aloft, dangling by a foot. Tremendously insulted by the rude handling, the child squalled in outrage. Disgusted, Quinaday stalked from the cabin.

  Without, his warriors organized loot into comfortable loads. Quinaday held his shrieking find at shoulder height, his expression scornful. He tossed his musket to a warrior. When he spoke his words were scathing.

  "Do we leave the young to grow, to fight against us? Or did you hope the fire would finish any your iron pot hunting overlooked?"

  Quinaday shook the child violently. "We are here to kill whites not to gather blankets." He scowled darkly and again shook his victim in emphasis.

  "Quinaday will show you how." His hand snatched free his long scalping knife.

  +++

  Wheezing like a run-out horse, Rob made the edge of Hornsock's field. Mountain laurel grew there, and its early blooms gave good concealment. Smoke rose from the cabin, and Rob's first look showed fire licking through the bark roof. He dashed sweat from his eyes and peered carefully through the bushes.

  Warriors clustered near the cabin's porch, and one appeared to be offering something. Even a few breaths cleared most of Rob's vision, and his heart ceased its efforts to burst through his chest.

  Quinaday! At a hundred yards. Rob could not mistake the hair roach running ear to ear. Rob felt his teeth grind. A few minutes of rest-just time enough to steady his strengthless arms and to stiffen legs so wobbly they barely held-then he would blow the life from the Seneca killer.

  Rob's hearing opened, and the panicked screaming of a child slashed across awareness. There, in Quinaday's fist, hanging head down, a naked child. Alive, thrashing and squalling it announced its outrage.

  Quinaday handed aside his musket, flourishing the child with brutal violence, and in mounting desperation, Rob knew he could not wait.

  As though it weighed a ton, Rob got his rifle shouldered. He rested it across a hand that gripped a sturdy tree. The hammer came to full cock, and Rob forced the sights into alignment.

  Steady as a log the rifle should lie. Unmoving, the front sight should rest exactly where the spinning lead ball would strike. But, Quehana's breath sawed, his pulse pounded, exhausted muscle quivered and bucked. As if alive, the rifle's muzzle swung about.

  Quinaday's free hand appeared with the glint of a steel blade. In utter concentration, Rob fought the barrel still. Even his pulse hesitated as all of his will poured into setting the front sight blade on Quinaday.

  Rob squeezed quickly because he could not hold long. Sparks flashed and the rifle bucked solidly. Smoke obliterated his target, but Rob ducked under it.

  As though time slowed, he saw matter blow from the top of Quinaday's head. A section of stiffened hair flew high, and the Seneca dropped as though already dead.

  Exultant, Rob quickly rolled away. Only a fool lay waiting beneath his own powder smoke.

  With blank astonishment, the four Senecas saw the top of Quinaday's head blow away. As though hurled from a cliff, their leader struck the ground, limp as a dropped blanket.

  The white child's increased squalling helped jerk away their paralysis. Like snakes, they wriggled to the nearest cover. Large stumps and stacked firewood offered protection and the four Senecas were gone from sight.

  Only the squalling child sitting in the dust beside the unmoving Quinaday showed life in the settler's clearing. Only the child's shrill screaming challenged the warriors' straining ears. A single gunshot can be difficult to locate, but from the forest edge powder smoke rose pinpointing the rifleman's position.

  From behind a forest giant, Rob reloaded. His fatigue-palsied hands moved automatically and his eyes searched and his ears listened. Clumsily, he dumped powder without measuring, but hearing no immediate threat, he patched his ball before seating it with a single long thrust of the ramrod. Protected by the thick laurel, he primed his pan with finer powder and was again fully loaded.

  If only he could get some strength back. He was so exhausted, Rob suspected an aroused squaw could do him in. Still, Quinaday was down. Rob had felt no certainty in the shot, but down the Seneca had gone, and there he lay. Only four to go. Rob groaned inwardly.

  For the moment, at least, the Seneca were trapped in the clearing. They could not fade away, and they must suspect that their single enemy was even now circling for a clear shot.

  If he were not so flat-out tired, Rob would be doing just that. As it was, he sought every instant of rest he could manage. Already his breathing was better, and he felt as though he again held a rifle and not a tree trunk.

  Quehana chose a solid shooting position and waited.

  From behind a stump a warrior darted into view and was gone almost instantly behind a chopping block. It was an old game. A hurried shot would miss, and like a wolf pack, the four Seneca would charge the frantically reloading rifleman. Rob's lips quirked, and he held his fire. An instant later, the same lithe body slid to new cover.

  Again wiping sweat from his eyes, Rob waited. He doubted the Seneca would return to a previous spot. The only other likely protection was a small pile of fieldstones, probably intended for a fireplace chimney.

  Rob leveled his rifle, again resting it across a hand gripping a sturdy branch. He tried the swing of sight he would need and repeated it twice. The shot was practical, if he did it right. Concentrating, he laid the front sight against the Seneca's chopping block. Quehana's bullet would be en route by the Indian's second step.

  A continual squalling annoyed Quinaday. It wakened him enough to recognize a tremendous agony in his head. He saw light and movement; perhaps it was smoke. The agony in his skull bewildered his thought, and he could not decide where he was or how he came there.

  A child's screaming again claimed Quinaday's attention. It came almost in his ear. Gathering what faculties remained, Quinaday sat up. As though a thousand hot irons had been thrust into his skull, new pain lanced through him. Quinaday's hand sought the source, and it seemed to his touch that a deep trench had been scoured across his skull, taking with it the center of his warrior's roach. Even the finger touch rushed increased agony through him, and Quinaday's hand dropped to help balance his upright body.

  Quinaday sat up. The mighty Quinaday lived! The warriors of Quinaday's band braced themselves. Fresh confidence laced their hunger to crush the enemy who shot from hiding.

  Quinaday sat up, and Rob Shatto almost cursed aloud. The
Indian sat fully exposed, obviously dazed, fumbling at his head where Rob's rifle ball had apparently only grazed.

  Rob's steadiness faltered, and the rifle wobbled. If he fired at Quinaday, four Seneca would charge. It would be safer to kill one of the others and leave the wounded Quinaday for later.

  Rob could not be sure of a later. Four against one was desperate under the best conditions. Trembly with exhaustion, he could not hope to outrun the Seneca. Here he would fight until he won or could fight no more.

  If he failed, Quinaday might live to reach the Little Buffalo. Rob's sight blade settled, for an instant rock-steady on the chest of the already blood drenched Quinaday.

  Rob Shatto's rifle had two triggers. The forward one did all the firing, but by squeezing the rear trigger first, the front one became a hair trigger. The lightest touch would set it off.

  Rob squeezed his rear trigger and again quieted his still ragged breathing. The sight held solid, and he stroked his firing trigger.

  A true rifleman can feel a shot go home, just as he can sense a shot pulled off target. This time, it was right. This time, Quinaday took the ball, deadly-solid, where ribs began-exactly in the fork of his chest bones.

  Rob did not wait to see. Ignoring the possibility of a smoldering spark, he closed the pan and dumped a guessed-at powder charge down his barrel. He used priming powder because it was finer and would more surely trickle into the rifle's pan. He dropped a pair of balls on top of the charge and eared the hammer to full cock.

  Rob did it all without looking up. There was no need. A musket boomed and a ball rattled nearby. The Seneca were coming.

  +++

  When the rifle spoke, the warriors rose like a wave. The brave holding Quinaday's loaded musket lost a few steps by kneeling and firing into the enemy's powder smoke. The distance was beyond accurate musket range, and no others had reloaded. Dragging free his iron knife and a stone-headed tomahawk, he screamed his most defiant war cry and raced across the field after his companions.