"What's your name, boy?”
"I am Timothy Murphy, Mister Shatto."
Rob noted the upper-class English. An educated boy, but also a woodsy. An unusual combination. The tear beneath an eye was also a startler, Rob let his mind range to earlier years.
"Well, you know who I am, Murphy, now tell me what you're doin' scouting my place like a damned hostile."
"I was sent here, Mister Shatto. Mister Cummens of Philadelphia gave me a letter to explain everything."
The name Cummens got attention. "James Cummens sent you?"
"Yes, sir, Blue Moccasin said to see you first thing. He said, 'Quehana might know.'"
Unthinkingly, Tim had quoted Blue Moccasin in Huron. Shatto's eyes narrowed a hint.
Shatto asked in very poor Huron, "You speak the language of the lake people?"
Tim's answer was proud. "I am of the Huron."
Shatto grunted some sort of acceptance. "Alright Tim Murphy, get up and shake the powder out of that gun for now. We'll go down to the house and get to the bottom of things."
Shatto urged Tim ahead, and as they worked downhill he asked, "You got an Indian name?"
"I am Tear, son of Charlie Pierre."
"Where did you learn your English?"
"My teacher was named Caraway. He is a great hunter and killer of enemies."
"From up in New York Colony, that Caraway?"
"Yes, he is John Caraway."
"Heard of him. Heard he was as crazy as a loon."
Tim was offended, "Caraway can be carried away by battle, but he is not crazy."
"Said he burns bodies."
"Caraway told me he does so only to warn others away. He said that some who would have sought him were turned away by the stories."
"Yep, guess that would stop more than a few, but Indians I know put store in getting even. Some would keep coming if they believed Caraway wronged them."
"Those are the ones Caraway burns."
While Rob Shatto studied James Cummens' letter, Tim examined and thought about the Shatto home and household. The more he saw, the more he approved and also envied. For the first time, Tim Murphy imagined himself having a strongly built house with a loving wife and perhaps some of his Huron family as well.
The Shatto downstairs was a single stone room. The walls were as thick as Tim could reach and the door was of oak, inches thick and iron bound. The upper story of wood overhung the lower room and was divided for sleeping. Firing ports were all around, and a few had been opened into windows, although heavy inside shutters were ready for closing. Herbs hung from rafters and storage bins were along walls. An armory of guns was racked and kegs of shot stood ready. An oaken box sealed powder kegs from accidents, and bags of flints hung handy.
A corner of the great downstairs room had been partitioned off and was used for storage, but the trappings of frontier life that cluttered most cabins were consigned to outbuildings. The Shatto household had what was needed day to day, but it was also prepared to slam doors and defend itself at an instant's notice.
Becky Shatto was full of questions. Timothy Murphy was wonderment to her. His English, better than her own, and the tear beneath an eye were entrancing. That he had seen Niagara, Albany, and New York was marvelous, and she wished to hear of those famous places. The Shattos already knew Philadelphia, so that city held less attraction.
A squaw called Flat cared for Shatto children and moved possessively, obviously a recognized family member.
Rob said, "Well, Tim, Blue Moccasin's written quite a story."
Tim did not know how to respond.
"Says you're wanting to go back to Indian living. Also says he don't think much of the plan. Blue'd like me to talk you out of it, among other things."
Tim was surprised, "Mister Cummens did not seem that concerned, Sir . . ."
Rob interrupted, "We'd better settle on name callin' first thing. Mistering makes me a might uncomfortable. Out here we call James Cummens Blue. I go by Rob. That's Becky, and over there's Flat. Call us that way and we'll answer."
Tim nodded acceptance.
Rob suggested they walk while they talked, and they went out. Tim left his musket, but Rob took his rifle without apparent awareness. Attached to Shatto's belt, nestled into the small of his back, rode a holstered two-barreled pistol. It too seemed a part of this intimidating frontiersman. Quehana, it appeared, remained alert and prepared. For what? There was peace; no war threatened, or perhaps, Rob Shatto knew something others did not.
"So, Blue writes that he hopes I could help in identifying who you were born to. Then he says I should talk you out of going back to the Huron. Will it suit you if I give both a try, Tim?"
Tim laughed, "You can try . . . Rob." The name came a little hard. "I doubt you can change much though."
Rob chuckled, "You're probably right. Can't say as I know much about tribes beyond the Iroquois. Huron have appeared here, mostly before the French war, wanting to trade for iron points. Guns pretty well ended that business. The Huron had come so far I tried to give them more than fair dealings. Kind of flattering having hunters and warriors travel for a full moon to trade for your goods."
"Quehana's arrow points are known."
Rob nodded, "Well, I tried to hammer out good ones. There's a lot more to a proper point than just beating iron until it is sharp. There is balance to a point. There is sharpness along the edges so it will drive deep, and of course there is importance in making them all alike. If you don't, every arrow will fly different."
Tim wondered if Caraway knew any of this. Probably not, the long hunter had shown no interest in bows. Tim guessed there could be substance to the claim that Quehana's points were special.
They examined the still, and Rob told how whiskey shipped easily and could be sold anywhere while corn soured and was bulky to transport. Whiskey was for selling. Corn, Shatto claimed, should be kept for eating and feeding livestock.
Eventually they got to Tim Murphy's intentions. Rob asked, "If you're going back to Indian living, why bother finding out who you were born to? Could be you won't like what you discover, or if your family's still around they might not take to a grown son showing up after all these years."
Tim had no solid answers. It is just something I would like to know. Rob said, "Don't know as a man needs a better answer. Still, knowing could change how you would like to live.
"Take me for example, I lived some of my best years in a Delaware lodge right by that big oak over near the springs. E'shan, the arrow maker, took me in, and I had a friend called Shikee who went west from here. We hunted, fished, and roamed; it was fine living.
"But, I always knew it wouldn't last. Main reason was that whites were coming, and the Indian way was doomed. Now, Indians don't figure in things around here. In ten years the tribes went from being the only people to a few lonely outcasts squatting along Cisna Run. The point I'm making is that, whether you can see it or not, the same will happen to the Huron. Before you are full-grown they will be scattered or hemmed in like cattle. Indians have never been able to stand against whites. If they could organize and manage their borders, a tribe might last. The Iroquois have that chance right now. They've sold off enough land to be pulled in tight, and they could treaty themselves into sitting like an island while whites roll around them.
"Fact is, the Indian life is finished wherever the white man travels. There is no future in trying to rejoin them. It would be like boarding a sinking canoe. You would just drown with them."
"They are my family, Rob."
"Then bring them out. Flat lives white with us. We talk of the old days, but we know it is just talk. The Indian is finished here, and soon whites will control the land to the Ohio and beyond."
They returned to Rob's big house, and Quehana used it for further discussion.
"I was only a little older than you when I started building this place. My Indian friends could not help. To raise such a structure is not their way, but building is in the soul of a white man. W
e seek permanence. We hang doors and build fences. We say, 'This is mine!' and keep others out. We gather and collect and buy and sell. Only a few of us ever throw it all aside and stay Indian. I doubt you'll be one of them."
In truth, Tim could feel the tug of it. He too could build strong and own land, but not yet. He had other hungers to satisfy.
Shatto seemed to read his mind. "You're likely figurin' you could do all that later on, and you can. All I'm pointing out is—you should be planning on living white. For one thing, woods roaming is only for the young. It will make you old before your time, too many damp sleeps and poor food. Too many smoky fires and cold hunts. They wear men out, Indian or white. I've watched it my whole life.
"Then there's a woman and your children. You'll want both in time. If the old Indian ways were in place with all the social orders and villages, it might be different, but that's gone or going fast. Lodges will live alone trying to stay alive with white settlers claiming the land and ordering Indians away—killing them if they don't get gone. That's no place to try raising a family."
"We could go west. Whites will be long in coming there."
Shatto gave no quarter. "Now you said you'd been clear to the Lacota country, so you know there is no empty land. One tribe or another claims it all. Does the Huron welcome strange lodges in their lands? Of course not. Most may pass, but durned few can stay. If they try, they die. It is no different out west . . . and Tim, my guess is whites will be out there too before you are my age. Believe, Tim, the day of the Indian really is passing."
Tim Murphy was invited to stay. The invitation was easily given, but Tim wondered if Blue Moccasin's letter had sponsored it, or whether Rob Shatto was truly interested. Perhaps both he decided.
Tim had a room to himself, a remarkable condition he had never before experienced. Privacy was a luxury unknown to the lodge or even Caraway's quarters.
Before sleeping they had gone to the sweat lodge. The Huron did not regularly practice sweat bathing, and to Tim Murphy the experience was new.
Stripped of clothing they sat on low wooden seats. Rob poured water on heated stones and steam roiled. They sweat profusely, and Rob showed how to scrape the wet and heated skin clean with a curved edge of bone. Warmed to the core they dipped in Rob's pond before whipping their bodies dry with hands and finally with a soft cloth. Luxuriating in cleanliness and comfortable lethargy, Tim found fresh clothing waiting while Flat had his own rags boiling in soft soap and pine scent. Tim resolved someday to have a sweat lodge of his own, and Rob Shatto's reminder that only white ways would provide the many things he would want tugged at his mind.
Before first light, Rob Shatto slipped through his door and began his daily scout. Tim heard Becky bar the door behind him. A cautious and ordered man was Quehana, which was why he lived and his enemies had died. Tim wondered if he could bring such discipline to his own household, whether lodge or house of stone and wood.
Rob asked, "If you return to the Huron, how will you earn your place?"
"I will be a hunter. I am a good shot and can bring in game."
Rob glanced at the musket doubtfully and Tim flushed. "Not with this gun, of course. I will buy a rifle like yours and Caraway's. With such a rifle I rarely miss."
It was a bold and challenging statement. Rob hesitated only a moment. "Well, let's see how you do shoot." He chose a long gun from his rack and found its horn and pouch. "This is a good rifle. Its ball is a little light, so I use it for squirrels and the like. It shoots true, but a little high. A few shots and you will know how to hold."
Will Miller, an older man and Flat's husband Tim had discovered, left his work to set targets for them. The shooting place lay in the fields west of the house. Targets could be placed at great distances, and a trail had been worn from shooting points to targets.
Miller placed his shingles at 100 yards. A good distance to start with a strange rifle, Rob advised.
Tim had not fired a rifle in three years, and before then he had only rarely shot Caraway's gun without a rest. He could have knelt and steadied his elbow on a knee, but he was sure that Rob Shatto would shoot standing, so he would do the same.
Tim aimed and lowered his rifle a few times, getting the feel of it. The long barrel placed the weight out front and made for solid holding. Although heavy, once shouldered the gun lay steady. The long distance between sights also helped accuracy, and Tim found the brass blade of his front sight rested unmoving in the rear notch.
He full cocked, aimed, and shot quickly. He lowered his weapon and began immediately to reload. "That felt right. This rifle has a light trigger."
Will Miller called the hit. "Four fingers high and one finger left. Good shot, Tim."
Rob Shatto sat on a log, his rifle nearby. "That was a good shot, Tim. Gun shoots about there for me. Now, can you bring it in?"
Tim did. His balls began grouping around the blackened X in a fist sized cluster. Rob Shatto was impressed. Tim's performance with an ill-fitting gun new to the shooter was remarkable. Tim Murphy could handle a rifle.
They were moving to a greater range when a figure came loping across the field. The man was average size and looked about Rob's age. He wore leather and carried a black-looking, shorter-barreled gun. Closer in, Tim saw that the weapon was double barreled. It was the first two-barreled rifle Tim had ever seen.
"Heard you banging away clear over to my cabin, Rob. Figured either the Shawnee had come down or you were hinting I should come over and give you a shootin' lesson or two."
Rob said, "Tim, this is Jack Elan. Jack, Tim Murphy."
Elan said, "Pleased, Tim. I see Rob's stuck you with that high shootin' gun. Rob avoids even-Steven shootin'. Likes to have an advantage, Shatto does."
They took time out to become acquainted. Elan had lost a family to a war party and had escaped captivity by a desperate run through winter cold mountains. Now he had a snug cabin in Posey Valley, along the Little Juniata, and was raising a second family. Like most men on the frontier, Elan liked to shoot and was confident of his abilities.
Rob said, "Jack's tired old gun isn't much past two hundred yards, so when we get to serious ranges, Jack'll have to drop out and cheer on us real riflemen."
Elan snorted, "Old Deathgiver can shoot long. I just don't fancy it. Long shooting causes misses and wounding, whether it's Shawnee or deer. Get close and kill clean, I say."
Rob snickered, "Men usually have excuses for not being able to do things, like shooting long." Clearly the two were old friends, and Tim liked hearing their joshing.
Rob had not yet fired a shot, but with Jack Elan joining in they made a game of it. Elan shot well, but Tim did better. Elan was laudatory, "Tim, that's durned fine shooting. Even with Rob's bad gun you could take on most around here. Before we quit, I want you to try old Deathgiver here. Shatto sneers, but he's all wet, like he usually is."
But it was Rob Shatto's shooting that flabbergasted Tim Murphy. Rob was accurate, almost uncannily so. When Elan said, "Shoot" and they shouldered and fired together, Rob's rifle cracked while Tim was still pulling trigger.
Rob explained. "The trick is to begin squeezing trigger while the rifle is falling into line. Of course you have to get your sights right, 'cause your gun's going to fire. It's a good thing to practice. If an enemy was aiming, you'd want your shot quicker'n lightning. Same for a deer disappearing into trees."
Before two hundred yards Tim's lighter ball failed. "You need a heavy ball for long distance, Tim." Rob did not offer his rifle. Tim suspected only Rob Shatto handled that gun. Will Miller set up shingles at three hundred yards. Rob dropped to a knee and hit two before missing.
Elan said, "He'll claim the wind took that bullet."
Rob laughed, "I'd like to, but here's no breeze. Probably a bad ball." Elan groaned in pretended anguish.
Back in Shatto's great room they sat at Rob's table discussing the shooting. Tim unawaredly ran his fingers through a deep and worn gash in the tabletop. Elan noticed and talked about it.<
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"A tomahawk did that, Tim. Rob came home from the French war and found squatters moved in. Asked 'em to move out. Man went for a knife layin' there. Rob took off three of his fingers. Squatter left without more argument."
Rob nodded almost ruefully. "That was long ago, Jack."
Elan wasn't finished. "Amusing part is that Scat Harris, that was the squatter's name, took up tavern keeping in Carlisle. Claimed he lost his fingers fighting Indians. Old Scat is looked up to by some people down there as one of the tough old warriors, crippled from killing Red Sticks. Strange ain't it?"
Rob sliced pemmican, passing portions to Tim and Elan. "This is Flat's mixture. I grew up on it, so I'm partial. Flat's a Delaware. To my thinking they do most things better than other tribes."
"It is different, Rob, it does not taste like Huron pemmican."
"The Delaware used to do things better, but now the tribe's so scattered they aren't hardly a society anymore." Elan's point was strong.
Rob sighed, "Same old story, the strong devour those who are weaker. When the Iroquois joined five tribes into their confederacy they could whip any of the smaller tribes. The Susquehannoc were wiped out, the Delaware scattered, and even the Shawnee took their lumps.
"Just like it's happening now with us whites coming in. Time'll be when even the Iroquois are gone."
"Can't be too soon for me." Elan's memories were bitter.
Neither Tim Murphy nor Rob Shatto completely agreed, but it was not the time to argue. Tim hoped to hear if Rob knew anything about where he might have come from. He imagined a strong frontier family standing at their cabin door waiting to greet a long lost son. Goose bumps rose. The dreamings were foolish, but . . . well, it could be.
Rob appeared ready to talk about it.
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