Friend Seeker (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  "Runners were sent to warn other lodges and they continued on to alert the villages of the Iroquois." The earth was dotted and scratched with Three Feathers' poking and marking.

  "The Iroquois may send fierce war parties to seek out our enemy. For them we must have information. We must be the eyes that guide the Iroquois spears.

  'Who are our enemy? Squash has told us. They are Piscataway, a people who live along distant rivers. We know this, for only they knot hair above the ear of their weaker side. One may be called Hawk Foot, for Squash has seen his mark.

  "How many are they? Squash has seen only four. Our scouts will tell us more. If they are but four, our guards at the passes may strike them. If those already seen are a few of many, the Iroquois must know.

  "Who have we left to pursue and aid our youths? No one! Could we not spare a warrior or two? To enter a trap? Too few to fight and win? One follows the tracks of an enemy with great caution; a worthy enemy always looks behind.

  "To the young, the quickest path is always the best. Our captured nephew would at this time agree, for he faces death or slavery among a strange people. We must look beyond his anger and choose a plan best for all." Three Feathers' features drooped and his voice turned bitter. "The words I speak are true words, but if my young strength was returned at this moment, I would be after the thieving, sneaking Piscataway like a hawk after pigeons." He rose, stiff Joints cracking, and scattered his sketches with an angry moccasin. A wave of his hand dismissed his charges and they quietly slipped away.

  The words of Three Feathers remained with Squash but despite the teacher's reasoning, warriors should have come to avenge their capture; everything in his heart and his mind told him so. He kicked savagely at the ground, striving to control his outrage and resist scratching at the intense irritation of his bites and wounds.

  A wiser youth than Large Fish would have kept his distance, but the Fish was unused to having attention so strongly focused on another and his need for importance was regularly gratified by his larger size. Trailed by a few smaller youths he approached Squash with one eye closed and lip poked out. He scratched as though harassed by fleas and stuck his face close to Squash's in aggressive challenge.

  A day before Squash would have fallen to the ground clutching and struggling with the Fish and soon elders would have separated them without serious damage to either. Large Fish was one day too late. Fresh in Squash's memory was his humiliation by Hawk Foot and his ordeals in the briar and cane thickets. Large Fish's antagonizing appeared childish and Squash was in no mood for it.

  He acted as the Piscataway had. Without warning he grabbed the astounded Fish's hair and jerked him to a convenient distance.

  Then he sledged the Fish two thunderous, swinging smashes along the ear, each full powered and unfeelingly brutal. The shock of the blows traveled satisfyingly up Squash's arm and the solid chunking sound of his clenched fist flowed gratifyingly through his good ear. He saw Fish's jaw fall open with the first blow and his eyes glaze with the second. Squash flung him aside almost contemptuously, and unaware of the stunned silence of those who had seen, he continued toward his mother's lodge.

  Three Feathers' shrill attention whistle jerked him from his black anger and he saw the teacher still beneath the oak, beckoning imperiously. He turned back, suddenly aware of Large Fish, lying stunned upon the ground with his followers milling excitedly around. A trifle shamefaced, he rejoined Three Feathers under the instruction tree.

  Signaling him to follow, the old warrior led the way to a convenient outcropping close above the creek water. They sat comfortably and the Squash found Three Feathers examining him amusedly.

  The teacher's eyes sought the swellings, discolorations, and multitude of bites with tightened lips that finally loosened into a not unfriendly smile. Realizing how battered he must look. Squash found his sore lips grinning foolishly back.

  "You dealt harshly with Large Fish, nephew." It was not a question but Squash chose to answer.

  "I am not pleased with all things, Three Feathers, and Large Fish often stirs trouble." He added vindictively, "May his ear ring as mine does!"

  The teacher chuckled appreciatively—then grew serious. "You are not pleased, oh Squash, because you believe warriors should be hard upon the Piscataway. You are discontent because you can do nothing to aid your friend, Walking Son."

  Squash interrupted, "My friend now calls himself, Late Star." Before a seasoned warrior the words sounded pretentious, but after a moment's consideration Three Feathers grunted acknowledgement and voiced agreement.

  "One who has fought warriors has that right. We shall know him as Late Star." With only slight sarcasm he went on, "And if the naming is satisfactory I will continue." Squash remained silent.

  "It is in your mind that someone must do something before it is too late. As little occurs you will soon consider taking the trail yourself. Before you struggle with such a decision you must know certain things. I had thought to discuss them with the others at the next morning, but it will be better if you hear them now and perhaps a second time so that the words become clear.

  "First, know that we here on the Buffalo Creek are not a village. We lack council and we are of many clans. We have no warrior society and help is not close by. We can do little beyond defending our lodges.

  "Now as to the Piscataway. We expect they will leave our valleys. We may find them in time, but they too are clever. If they return to their own villages, they will be far and be beyond our reach. Few know the land of the Piscataway. I know that the river called Potomac where many live is mightier than two Susquehannas. I also know that Piscataway villages line that river and probably other rivers. Who can tell to which village Late Star will be taken?

  "Three things are possible. It may be that Late Star has been killed. A single boy is small honor for a war trail and the party could travel faster without him. Next, Late Star may be found and freed through agreements with the Iroquois, who will not allow this raid to pass without notice. Finally, Late Star may escape, perhaps during this season, more likely many seasons from now."

  Three Feathers paused to fan gnats away with a bit of pine branch. "You can do nothing to help your friend. Can you speak the Piscataway tongue? Do you know the trails or the hills? Could you defeat in combat or outrun warriors? Could you free Late Star if you found him?

  "To all of these things you must answer 'No,' my nephew. Therefore, the task is too much and you can only pray to the Great Spirit for Late Star's safety."

  Again Three Feathers paused, seeking to understand the youth's mind. "All of these things you know to be true, but your heart still clamors for vengeance. That is good and it is right, but the mind must control the heart, otherwise few would survive their first battle.

  "So, my nephew, you must master your anger and hurt. Time will heal your loss, although the scar will remain and at times bleed again. Use your wounds, both of body and spirit as lessons, oh Squash, and become stronger for them."

  — — —

  The world seemed a sour and uninteresting place to Squash. Life appeared pointless and games that had a day earlier been challenging appeared only silly. He found it irritating that Little Boy could return to the tree climbing and swimming as though Eagle had not died and Late Star was not a prisoner. He poked around the lodges trying to ignore the itch of his body and finally took bow and arrow to spend anger launching shafts at Three Feathers' straw targets. Today his arm was hickory strong and with the Piscataway in mind his arrows sped truer and more powerfully than he could remember.

  He sat by the stream where he would not be disturbed and thought about the sudden changes within. He felt sobered and somehow much older than before his capture. He reviewed the ease and surety of his punishment of Large Fish and the accuracy of his shooting, even with his strong eye swelled shut. More important were his feelings about things. The thoughts and knowledge of Three Feathers were no longer tortures to be endured, and he wished he had listened closer the preceding
summers. His father had often groaned that it was time he became a man. Perhaps he had begun doing so.

  Though women and children remained close to the lodges, men had returned reporting the forest free of enemy. None of them girded for the war trail and Squash restrained his urge to seek out Three Feathers and ask why a party did not now pursue the Piscataway,

  He supposed Three Feathers would claim one could not expect their enemy to still be within reach after a full turning of the sun and Squash did not wish to hear that answer. He resolved that if men did not soon take the trail he would do so himself despite Three Feathers' arguments, but the day drew on and his mother insisted that he bathe so that she could apply fresh ointment. Then he slept and it became too dark to begin.

  During the night other men returned and by dawn only scouts at western passes and one runner bearing warning to Iroquois longhouses beyond Shamokin were still away. Squash's father had scouted a southern pass. He celebrated his son's safe return with an affectionate scrubbing of Squash's unruly locks end listened, nodding satisfaction at his son's story before telling his own.

  Corn Row spoke seriously of his run to the pass across Kittatinny Mountain. He had crossed Sherman's Creek with fear for his son giving him a fish's speed. He had bounded up the mountain like a deer escaping wolves and he had studied the summit for signs of recent passage. Finding none he had settled to wait.

  While he waited he tried to think as an enemy would. Some war leaders believed a party should return the way it had come as that way had already proven safe, but most chose a different route knowing that ambush would be less likely. Corn Row therefore remained alert, as an enemy could have chosen his path for escape.

  No enemy challenged his pass and before dark a friend's lodge had struggled up the south side of the mountain. At Com Row's suggestion they had camped nearby and the friend joined in guarding the path.

  By the time the sun was high they decided their enemy had used another route and Corn Row came ahead, scouting for sign but finding none.

  As his father talked and devoured a well-earned meal, Squash found himself listening and seeing with new awareness. Where Corn Row's efforts would have seemed thrilling and adventurous, he now recognized them as hard, uncomfortable, and unrewarding.

  Corn Row was not a warrior. He was their family head, and he hunted game with skilled dedication so they lived with full bellies even when the sun slept and the earth turned to stone. For Squash such thoughts were new. The hunger to do battle with cunning enemies who fled before his valor was gone from his mind as though it had never been. Squash supposed it had retreated during his entrapment in the briars and had dissolved forever as he crouched in the cane thicket.

  Judging the other men of the fishing village, he recognized that Three Feathers was the only real warrior among them. Others had fought upon occasion, but only old Three Feathers had practiced and lived the ways of war. It became clearer why no war party harassed the Piscataway back to the Potomac.

  Corn Row said the Iroquois would come and seemed content with that. Squash wondered if his father would have been as satisfied if he, instead of Late Star, were still captive.

  That morning, Three Feathers spoke long of the boys' capture. He warned of dangers even here in the valleys protected by the Iroquois, and he taught again how to listen and to clearly see. If others squirmed, Squash did not. He glanced only once at a sullen Large Fish with swollen ear and closed eye. Thereafter he listened carefully, absorbing that which he had previously neglected.

  Three Feathers believed the Piscataway had left the valleys between the mountains by crossing Kittatinny at a high point. If they avoided regular paths and traveled the open woods where only great trees grew, their progress would have been rapid and discovery improbable.

  Squash listened glumly. Too clearly he could recall that it had been Late Star who had created his chance to escape. He could imagine his friend still cruelly bound, being beaten southward with ever lessening chance of escape. By the time Three Feathers released them, Squash had decided. If the body of Late Star lay unmarked in the woods, he would find it. But if his friend had been carried beyond Kittatinny, he would discover the route and all would know.

  He ate quickly, stuffing a few choice items into a pouch and donning a soft doeskin shirt to protect his savaged body. He loped from the village, telling no one. Three Feathers watched him go, raising his pipe in acknowledgement but not attempting to detain him.

  Boys again loitered at the favored pool but they did not call out to him and grew silent as he passed. Somehow, he no longer belonged among them. He resolved to think on it when he had opportunity.

  The path where the Eagle had died was well trampled and he did not pause until approaching the cane field. There the marks of the Piscataway were thick and their imprints sent chills along his spine. He considered nocking an arrow, but realized the silliness of it. No enemy lurked within the trampled and beaten down cane.

  Where they were clear, he studied Hawk Foot's moccasin prints until their pattern was strong in his mind. Then he took the Piscataway track, walking or trotting as the sign allowed.

  A mile past the cane the enemy had rested for some time. The spot was off the trail behind a hemlock stand. Squash smiled grimly knowing the others had waited here while Hawk Foot had lurked in the cane. Thereafter, the tracking grew more difficult, but five could not pass without leaving traces and Squash believed Late Star did as little trail hiding as possible.

  In late dusk he found the Piscataway camp of two nights past. Late Star had been tied to a tree and no fire had been lighted. Where Star had knelt to drink, his bound hands had scratched one of their secret signs in the thin moss. Squash's heart thumped at his friend's certainty that his companions would search this way.

  Without fire or robes, the Squash fared little better than had Late Star, but the night was mild and he had much to think about. He could thank Three Feathers and his father for the tracking skills that had brought him this far but unless the Piscataway loitered he could not catch up, and if he did overtake the party he could not rescue Late Star from four warriors. Only a child would toy with such imaginings.

  Could he follow the enemy and discover their village? That too seemed beyond reason. The land of the Piscataway was many marches distant and he lacked all of the things necessary for such a Journey. Only in dreams did one march for days without eating and resting.

  Of course, a single rain would destroy the trail. If his enemy chose a used path, as they surely would further on, another party could obliterate all traces of their passing. The Piscataway might use canoes on a river and no one tracked over water.

  Discouraged by his logic, Squash chose to sleep on his thoughts. Three Feathers warned often against plans made by tired minds, Alone, near the base of Kittatinny Mountain, Squash obeyed his teaching. Snuggled close among tree roots, resting on pine tips and covered by hemlock branches, he slept in short fits. His rest was troubled by dreams of enemies from whom he ran with ponderous slowness only to have them reappear for further running.

  He ate hungrily at dawn consuming all but a little of his food. He followed the tracks up the side of the mountain noting that the Piscataway had woven their course through the largest tree stands where no brush grew and they could move rapidly. As Three Feathers had expected, the band had crossed the summit of Kittatiny at a point far from a trail and had taken time to remove most signs of their crossing.

  Squash gazed south from the mountain crest at endless forests stretching beyond imagining. Somewhere far beyond his sight, Late Star struggled on toward captivity. That he could return unaided seemed improbable and Squash's throat filled at the thought of it.

  The swelling of his closed eye had reduced considerably during the night and he could again see with both eyes. Most of the swelling had gone from his ear and even the itching of his bites had subsided. Squash knew himself to be fortunate in standing free atop the great mountain while his friend marched bound and miserable.r />
  As they were not at war, Late Star would not be killed at his captor's village. Rather, he would be set at women's work and made to perform the most onerous of tasks. Always he would be watched and if he ran, his punishment would be severe. It came sharply to Squash's mind that he alone stood willing to aid Late Star no matter how far the Piscataway marched. Yet, he too must prepare. His thoughts of the evening had cleared his mind of foolish hopes and willful actions. There was much to be done and seasons might pass before he was ready to begin his search for Late Star, but once begun, he would continue until he found his friend.

  Late Star would have to endure until then. Squash wished his friend could know that he was not forgotten. He projected his thoughts across the sky praying that Late Star might feel their touch and gain strength from knowing.

  He stood for a time longer, thinking carefully of the tasks ahead. He would need a warrior's heart and skills. The patience and endurance of the hunter must also be his. To dedicate himself to the task a special sign was needed, something to always point his direction allowing him never to falter.

  It came to him clearly as sun rising on a bright morning. He could feel its rightness and his pulse thundered with the power of it. He would take a new name; one that would bind him to his mission. Henceforth, the Squash was no more. In his place stood Friend Seeker, one whose only goal was clear in his name. As Friend Seeker, he would train and study and grasp the knowledge he needed.

  He sucked in the crisp mountain air and blew in respect to the four directions. He raised his palm in salute to the unseen Late Star and turned for the long march to the Buffalo Creek.