Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Dunk turned quickly, "Git ready, boy, git your blade out an' wrap that blanket around your other arm. We got a chance, boy! You go to the left, an' I'll circle right. When we start cuttin' don't stop till he's in pieces."

  Fingers shaking, face working, Josh did as he was told. Dunk turned a cunning face to Rob, "An' if we'uns cut this Injun, you'll be lettin' us go, ain't that right, Shatto?"

  "No, that's not right. If Long Knife is harmed I will kill you myself." Rob snaked a tomahawk from his belt to prove his point.

  Slack-jawed Dunk stared dully at Rob, then his pig eyes turned clever, "You're jest sayin' that, Shatto, 'cause you don't figure we'll win, but we'uns ain't out of it yet."

  Rob stepped away, and the whites clambered erect. Long Knife stood across the fire, his head thrown skyward, his long blade hanging toward the ground. The keening scalping cry began and rose to a screech of such maniacal fury that the whites were frozen in their tracks.

  The Knife's body exploded across the fire catching Josh still maneuvering aside. The long blade darted low, and Josh, squealing like a stuck hog, back pedaled, slashing with his own knife and holding his blanket-wrapped arm in front for protection.

  Dunk scrambled mightily to attack while The Knife concentrated on Josh, but he was already too late. Josh's knife clattered against a stone and his hand hung, cut nearly through at the wrist. Staring at his spouting wrist, Josh seemed barely to notice the long blade as it sunk beneath his breastbone, sliced sideways and was withdrawn. He sank to his knees, a gush of blood spilling from his mouth, and fell forward onto his face.

  The Knife spun to face Dunk who stumbled to a halt, blanch-faced and shaken, but with his knife held low and ready.

  Long Knife seemed to take in a breath before gliding forward, sinuous as a panther, his body and knife arm weaving a pattern of death. Their knives struck once, clashing above the stamp of Dunk's boots and the slide of moccasins, before Dunk howled and his blanketed arm fell, terribly gashed at the elbow.

  Evading the man's frantic slashing, The Knife slid close, cut, and was away. Stepping clear, Long Knife lowered his blade and watched his opponent with a face cut from stone.

  The white man's knife fell from nerveless fingers, and he fumbled at his thick midsection where blood suddenly welled. He sank to his knees, a scream forming and bubbling at his lips as vast folds of intestine began oozing from a belt high slash across his middle.

  Gutted by a single stroke, he tottered on his knees, blindly attempting to push his innards back into place. He folded slowly forward as though protecting his vitals, twitched a time or two, and was dead.

  As cold as death, Long Knife stepped among the trio, scalping each with a single circle cut and a powerful jerk that tore the scalps loose. He cut the bear claw from around the rat's neck and recovered Bright Dove's braids from the fat one's body. Suddenly weary, he dropped to a log and sat staring at the scene of carnage.

  Silently Rob gathered things of value from the corpses and piled them near the three muskets. He placed a few pinecones onto the nearly dead fire and coaxed it into life.

  When it was burning well he reached across and took the three scalps from beside Long Knife and tossed them into the blaze. For an instant The Knife roused as though to protest. Then he nodded approval with a sigh of great weariness.

  Some believed that without a scalp a warrior was doomed to forever search for it in the land beyond death. A burned scalp condemned the dead to an endless hunt for something forever gone. Long Knife put little stock in such beliefs, but Quehana was right, for it might be true, and he wished only the worst for the killers of his Bright Dove.

  Long Knife showed little interest in the spoils of the fight. He shouldered the musket Rob handed him, and Rob carried the other two guns with the knives and pouch contents stuffed into the best pouch. He burned the blankets and extra clothing, knowing the Knife would not use them. They left the bodies for others to find. They were not worthy of ceremony.

  At the Little Buffalo they stopped to bathe away the sweat, paint, and some of the concentrated rage and fatigue. The water was summer warm and laved their bodies with its gentle current. Rob floated idly on his back, holding an overhanging branch to keep from drifting. The world had become strange. There had been violence in the Endless Hills before the whites came, but it had usually been among warriors seeking honor.

  The mindless brutality that left a squaw mauled and scalped was new. Long Knife had dealt kindly with the three; they had died quickly. Rob knew the Indian capacity for cruelty to be almost bottomless, and if serious trouble developed, white violence would become small before the tortures conceived by red minds.

  Long Knife had killed three men before the sun was high. Long Knife, the hunter of game, had proven equally deadly as a hunter of men. Rob wondered where the thoughts of Long Knife traveled.

  The lives of the whites had not been enough. Long Knife wondered if there could be enough white lives to wash away the hatred that seethed deep inside him.

  Whites spoiled all they touched. Their hands on land meant ripping of ground, felling of trees, and elimination of the game. He thought of the whites he knew. Croghan, who traded with ferocious intensity, milking each dealing of its pleasure and hauling his loads to white villages. To gain what? The Knife did not know.

  Weiser, who came preaching great thoughts and strange tales of men long dead and special ways of knowing the Great Spirit-even Weiser demanded the Indians change to his way.

  The yellow haired men at the Deer Spring tore at the land, destroying the beauty that had brought them there.

  Whites were like herring, spawning in every rivulet and running in countless numbers in blind rushes to the sea. Within those numbers there must be many like those that killed The Dove. Truly whites were a sickness on the earth.

  Quehana had been white. Beneath his clout his skin lacked the rich Indian color, but Quehana was as Delaware as he, Long Knife. Blue Moccasin had been fathered by a white, but only his eyes, the color of the sky, betrayed it.

  Blue Moccasin was also a true Delaware. Whites could change and leave behind their sickness, but Long Knife feared those would be few.

  The loss of Bright Dove squeezed his heart, and he could feel the weight of tears behind his eyes. He ached to cut and chop and hack until whites fled and were seen no more. His face would hide his feelings. He would show no weakness before his people. Death came to all things and must be accepted, but the heart of Long Knife was black, and no longer would he counsel peace before all else.

  They returned to the Little Buffalo and rested in the familiar meadows. E'shan's lodge site was grown over, but they sat beneath the great oak, and Long Knife spoke his thoughts.

  "My people will go first to Aughwich, then to the village of Kittanning. The lodge of Long Knife will not again come this way. There is strong talk of war among the tribes, Quehana. Some will remain apart, but the Delaware may fight, and Shingus calls for the hatchet.

  "My heart has hardened. Perhaps the time has come to take the war trail lest whites take all that the Great Spirit has given us."

  Rob had little to say. He thought it wise for the Indians to leave. There could be no future for them among whites.

  He gave The Knife many iron arrow points and loaded him with the dead whites' pouch and muskets. They gripped hands powerfully, and Long Knife left the valley of the Little Buffalo.

  Heavy of heart, Rob watched him go. If warriors came again, they would be painted, and their bows would be strung. That, Rob Shatto prayed, he would never see.

  Chapter 13

  For weeks, Robert's magnificent outhouse was a favorite subject. His complaint that, if everybody didn't quit hiking over to use it, he would have to dig a new pit added amusement.

  Someone said the thing was built like a fort, and thereafter it was often called Robert's fort. A few claimed that's where they were heading if the Indians came, which was good for additional chuckles.

  Then a number of events oc
curred, and the smiles became grim.

  George had been talking up a good stockade, large enough to protect everybody along with their provisions, but he wasn't getting far.

  Martha Robinson proved her worth about then. She listened to George's arguments and asked a few pointed questions. She chewed on a straw, squinted at the distant mountain, and muttered a few uh-huhs and a yep or two.

  Finally, she hiked herself off to the nearest cabin and began impressing on them that a stockade was needed, and they should be helping not hindering. Within a week she had made her point clear to about everyone.

  There was no organized Masonic lodge at Robinson's fort, but without sheriff, judge, or clergy, the need for something a little larger than themselves was strong.

  Masonry provided beliefs, faith, and support both spiritual and physical. The Freemasons met as best they could, and during the first of those meetings George pushed though agreement to start the stockade. He argued that it was not a big work if they all gave it a few days, and that they would all feel better having a fort ready, but neither he nor Martha was as convincing as Rob Shatto.

  Shatto had come from the woods as quietly as a fog, and he was only a day behind the news of three whites being massacred along the Juniata. Shatto was on his way to join Braddock. His words made people think, then work harder.

  Word of the massacre had come from settlers heading west along the Indian trail. Some were afraid and others merely grim about it.

  George raised the question, "Rob, you heard about those three white men being killed over along the Juniata branch?"

  Shatto's reply was direct, "I was there when it happened, George."

  That answer stopped all work and made a crowd of listeners. Rob told the story clearly with little emotion. The shock was plain on Robinson faces, but if any doubted the justice of Long Knife, it was not evident.

  George half-stuttered, "Why Rob, Long Knife camped here with us last summer. I remember Bright Dove real well. She'd just come to the lodge, and she was pretty as a cherry blossom and pleasing to all of them. Damnation, those hounds got what they deserved!"

  Though listening, Rob was looking across the creek where a peculiar party was arriving. The Robinsons were more interested in Shatto's thoughts, and for the moment they ignored the strange sight.

  "Rob, you reckon this means Injun trouble?"

  George's question hung over them like a summer storm. The men grew tense, and there wasn't an eye blink among them. Rob could appreciate their anxiety. Given time, they would sink roots and shoulder aside Indian violence, but at this point, their hold was precarious. Their numbers were few, their supplies limited, and their preparations barely started. He wished he could say good things.

  The Robinsons saw Rob Shatto, tall and hard as an oak, with braided hair and beaded skins, as near to being the final authority in Indian affairs as they were likely to get. Shatto knew Indians and was still on good terms with some of them. His thoughts weighed heavily among them.

  Rob said, "Some of the tribes are painting for war, but the Iroquois are not. As long as they stay true, you'll have a chance here. Mainly, I'd say the Delaware and the Shawnee are the most likely to rise. The Delaware are scattered, but the Shawnee are whole, and they are fierce warriors.

  "Now, there is no speaking for every little band of Indians because they are likely to do what they wish no matter what happens, but if Braddock will get a move on and really clear the French out of the Ohio country, no tribe will raise the hatchet against English settlements.

  "The French provide the guns and the blankets, and without that support, the chiefs know they could not win."

  George said, "Word comes that Braddock has offered five pounds for every hostile scalp brought in."

  Rob snorted, "Any scalp coming in isn't likely to be off a hostile, and that means killing innocents and ends up making more enemies. Braddock went and offered two hundred pounds reward for Shingus, the Delaware Chief, which is about as sensible as Shingus offering wampum for the King's scalp. All Braddock is doing is making Shingus look more important than he is.

  "Well, all this isn't answering your question clear enough.

  "It's my guess that you will have some Indians lurking around. They might close in and try for some easy scalps, but if Braddock whips the French, that threat will fade, and by next summer there will be settlements to the west and war parties won't get this far.

  "But if Braddock gets stalled or licked, well, you had better have strong walls and roofs that don't burn, because warriors will be marching up and down the old paths collecting for all the wrongs they feel done to them."

  The crowd broke into concerned chatter, some gathering about the young frontiersman to question him further. The grunting of swine startled most of them, and they turned toward the strange party Rob had been watching approach.

  The hogs numbered perhaps a dozen. They waddled and trotted, seeming almost independent of the wizened figure herding them. The pigs started for the spring, but some of the men scrambled down the bluff and drove them away.

  Ignoring his hogs, the drover came up the bluff to where the rest stood watching. The man seemed all points. His cloth hat came to a point on top, and his features seemed pulled forward into a sharp triangle led by a pointed nose. The man was so skinny his shoulders, elbows, and knees all showed as knobby points, and his long, narrow feet appeared borrowed from someone twice as large. On a tall day the drover might have stood five feet. He was not an imposing figure at best, and clad in garments scrap-sewed together from both leather and homespun, he appeared more fit for keeping crows from fields than droving north of Kittatinny.

  Displaying an alarming lack of teeth, the stranger's wizened features scrunched into a poor facsimile of a smile as his voice, shrill and whiny, destroyed any vestiges of dignity left.

  "How'd-ya-do, you all, I'm Ephraim Shcenk, an' I'm here to raise me a passel o'hogs an' kill me a pile o'Injuns." He brandished an ancient rust-encrusted snaphance musket of gigantic bore.

  George broke the silence before someone laughed.

  "Well, Mr. Shcenk, you're the first here with hogs, and they are surely welcome. You will find land with nut trees to feed your hogs. We expect you'll keep them from the creek, but otherwise, there are many choice spots still unclaimed. Now as to Indians," George kept his face solemn, "we've no troubles with them, and we hope they stay far distant."

  Shcenk's lips sucked in as though he chewed on alum, "No Injuns, hey? Well they'll come sooner or later, and when they do, I'll be waitin'. I got no use for them red varmints." His face turned ugly with passion, "An' I ain't got no use for them that sides with 'em neither."

  Embarrassed by the outburst, some men turned away, Rob Shatto among them, but Shcenk was not finished. Ignoring his hogs that were now being chased from the blockhouse entrance, he said, "Heard tell you was Robinsons hereabout."

  Puzzled, George answered, "That's so, although there are some Logans and others as well."

  "Then what's that 'un doin' here?" Schenk's gnarled finger pointed at Rob Shatto.

  Mystified, George said, "Why that's our neighbor, Rob Shatto."

  The little man snarled his retort, "I knowed who he is! He's the one that's always speakin' up fer them red devils. There's some calls him an Injun lover, an' I figure he ain't one to have around."

  Rob appeared mildly amused, but George was getting mad and so were others. His voice was sharp, "We don't need that foolishness around here, Shcenk. Rob Shatto's known to us, and keep in mind that you are not! If you have bad feelings, just take 'em right on down the trail, you aren't needed here." A rumble of approval followed his words.

  Unabashed, Shcenk jammed his pointy chin forward, "Nobody's movin' Ephraim Shcenk a step further than he figures on goin'! Them that tries gets hurt. I'm a bad man to crowd, an' don't nobody forget it."

  Bored with it, Rob started away, but Shcenk's shrill yapping landed on him again.

  "There's more'n me that knows about your
Injun doin's Shatto, an' we'll be keepin' an eye on you an' your kind."

  The man's like a mosquito, Rob thought. He'll keep buzzing in your ear until you just have to swat him.

  Someone said, "Being so warlike and all, Shcenk, maybe you better go along with Shatto. He's joining Braddock, and you could watch him real close all the way to Fort Duquesne."

  There was laughter, and Shcenk spun like a cat harassed by many dogs. "Braddock is it? You all so sure Shatto ain't goin' down there jest to warn them French an' Injuns that we're a'comin'?"

  Lord, the French already knew more about Braddock's army than Braddock did, but Rob had listened to enough from the nasty, little viper. He stepped through people between him and Shcenk. Shcenk saw him coming, but he had time for only a small squeak before Rob's big hands closed on him. One handed, Rob raised him onto his toes by his shirtfront. His other hand plucked the snaphance from Shcenk's grasp and almost effortlessly twirled it clear across the creek.

  Shcenk fumbled for a knife at his belt, but Shatto slapped his hand aside, got a good grip with both hands and spun him off his feet. Shcenk's wail was loud, but Rob was interested now, and putting his back into it, he spun like a top, Shcenk sticking out like a spoke on a wheel.

  After two speed-gathering revolutions, Rob let him go. The man's body arced from the bank, soared across the low ground, and struck the fast water of the big run in a mighty splash.

  Men howled and slapped each other as Shcenk tumbled head over heels reaching the far bank. His irritation gone, Rob was mildly embarrassed by his actions, but the Robinsons had loved it.

  Muttering imprecations but staying well distant, Shcenk gathered his hogs and recovered his useless, old gun. Draining water at every step he headed on up the creek, his nagging voice promising certain vengeance once he got settled.

  Half amused and a little disturbed, George turned to Rob, "Don't know as having that one around will be profitable, Rob"