Chapter 8
Discovery
Rob chewed pemmican for a moment before speaking. "Now, Tim, Blue Moccasin wants me to convince you not to head back to the Huron. So, I feel obliged to keep trying.
"From what you tell me, your white side hasn't had a fair chance. City living will never be right for a man raised in a lodge, and that's all you've really seen. What you need to do is to spend a season or two out here in these mountains.
"A young man like yourself faces important forks in his trail. Trouble is he usually can't go back and try another. Way I see it, if you go to the Huron, the best you'll ever do is live like a woods rat. You're not an Indian, and judging by your tracks coming in you aren't particularly skilled in scouting. The years when you should have been learning to move in the woods went by with you in New York. Most can't catch up; likely you won't either. What I'm saying is that you aren't as equipped to live Indian as you probably think you are."
Rob saw objection in Tim's eyes. "You're thinkin' of how you roamed far with Caraway, but following a white man along the trails isn't the same as learning to read sign, knowing what passed by and how long ago by seeing bent grass.
Elan put in, "Rob's right, Tim. I came out here full grown, and I've made my way, but I made it in our white world. I'd've had little chance among Indians.
"Now Rob here was raised in E'shan's lodge, which was an advantage, but look at him—Quehana is not you or me. If you go into the woods with Rob you'll discover how little you know, and you'll better understand what we're sayin'."
Rob began again. "Here's what I'll offer. I'll tell what I know about your beginnings, and in exchange you'll stay here at least till snow flies. That'll give me time to change your thinking."
"How will I travel in the winter? I would have to stay until spring."
Rob laughed, "That's part of my plan too, Tim." He turned serious, "It isn't my place to hide things from you, so I'll probably tell you all I know, and you'll be surprised at it, whether you agree to stay over or not. I've got to admit your arrival has caught my interest, and I'd like to do the best for you."
Tim hesitated, reluctant to delay but intrigued by the Shatto family and Rob's offer. Finally he said, "Well, I've got to buy a good rifle before I go north, anyway. They don't make long guns up there."
Elan put in, "A new rifle will cost a lot of money, Tim. Old Deathgiver cost twenty-two dollars."
Tim said a little proudly, "I've got almost that much." Eyebrows arched in some doubt, so he added, "Caraway gave me money when I left, and I've saved hard since then."
Rob whistled appreciation. "Well, that's an accomplishment, Tim. Many a lot older than you couldn't pay for a rifle."
He slapped the table in satisfaction. "Let's call it an agreement. You stay on, see how you like it, and get your rifle built. Come winter or spring, whichever suits, you can decide how your stick floats."
That seemed to settle it, and Tim experienced an unexpected surge of relief. The Huron were far distant, and he had been away a long time. He could stay here, rest up, find a rifle, and leave any time he chose.
Just as important, it sounded as if Rob Shatto had something specific to tell him, and that awareness made Tim Murphy a little nervous.
Rob said, "Over where the Juniata joins the Susquehanna there's an island called Duncan's. It's just barely an island, being separated from the west bank by a jump-across wandering of the Susquehanna.
"Used to be a Comoy village there called Juneatau. Long gone now. Back when the Iroquois were growing strong the Cayuga and Delaware fought a mighty battle there with huge killing on both sides. People farming the island turn up bones and weapons from that war.
"When William Penn bought this land from the chiefs the first settler on Duncan's was William Baskins. He and a neighbor, Marcus Huling, were the only whites on the island back then.
"Baskins had a wife, Martha, a girl whose name I can't recall, and a baby boy named after his father.
"Baskins didn't have much else. He farmed a few acres of old Indian fields and was trying to clear more. He had a cabin that's still standing and that was about all. Shikee and I stopped by the island a few times, but we did little more than swap news before moving on." Shikee, Tim recalled, was Rob's boyhood friend. A full-blooded Delaware, Tim supposed.
Rob continued, "When the Indians rose in 1755, Baskins and Huling hauled out of there and took shelter at Fort Hunter. That's on Fishing Creek, a little way above Harris's Ferry where you crossed the river.
"Well, those were real bad times. People that tried staying out here died, except the Robinsons and me; of course those that fled had little more than their shirts and drawers. The forts were bulging with refugees fleeing war parties and had nothing to give. Starvation was a genuine threat, too many mouths and all the game shot out.
"Corn was ripening at the cabins and some had wheat, beans, squash and pumpkins planted. With war parties still appearing out of nowhere, it was dangerous to try to harvest, but groups formed, crossed the river, and went at it. Some were successful, others weren't. Men had to take the risk or maybe watch their families starve to death. Yep, it was a hard time all right."
Rob paused, and Jack Elan added his memories. "That was when my cabin was hit. Shawnee killed my wife and boy and carried me west. I finally got away and came staggering down the Tuscarora more dead than alive. Rob found me or I likely wouldn't have made it much further."
"Yes, you would of, Jack. You'd gotten so tough no rough going could have done you in. You'd have gone on until you met someone if you'd had to go clear to the salt water.
"Anyway,” Rob resumed, “Baskins had grain ready for harvesting. Duncan's island seemed a practical distance to go. A day up, harvest, and an easy float back down to the fort.
"What Baskins should have done was organized a party and shared what they got, but Baskins was typical Scotch-Irish. They're all so damned independent they can't stand being helped. So, Baskins took only his wife and a young fellow named Mclean. The children had to come along as well. No place to leave 'em, I suppose. Looked easy and reasonably safe, as no war parties had been reported for a spell.
"Well, it didn't work out that way. Indians came down on 'em while they were corn picking. Mclean and Martha Baskins got away. William Baskins and the children did not. A horde of warriors chased Tom Mclean into the river, but didn't come after him. Strange that they didn't, but he's alive to prove it.
"Martha Baskins said her husband's musket had gotten wet fording the river and wouldn't fire. Probably wouldn't have done any good anyway. The Indians picked the corn and put it in canoes. Martha saw a chance and ran for it. She got clear as well.
"A party went up to see what they could, but except for Baskin's body there wasn't anything. Martha had a Shawnee bag hung on her so that tribe got the blame."
Rob paused again in consideration, "Of course it wasn't Shawnee. I could've told them if they'd asked."
Elan asked, "How do you know that, Rob? You go to look it over?"
"Nope, didn't have to, and I didn't hear the story till many nights later. But, it wasn't Shawnee. That tribe had been pushed way west. They would never have canoes on the Susquehanna. North of Duncan's is Iroquois land. Downriver, it's white property. Just as important is that a war party doesn't gather corn, and they don't have squaws along for corn picking. Martha Baskins reported both. Finally, what would Shawnee do with corn that far from their villages? Nope, none of that rings true."
"Who then, Rob?" Elan was caught up in the mystery.
"Had to be Iroquois. Nobody else would dare the river, and no other Indians were living close enough to handle all that corn. It was Iroquois all right and probably Seneca as they guarded the southern gate."
"They still do."
"True, but back then the gate was not up at Tioga; some still poked around Shamokin, and north of there a lot of longhouses still stood."
"Expect it didn't matter much, did it?"
"Not that I coul
d see. Only problem was the children were not accounted for. Most likely they'd been killed and tossed into the river, but they could also have been taken into captivity. The Iroquois were always asked to watch for children or growed up white prisoners, but I don't ever remember a one being reported until the big exchanges in 1764, when Tim here got returned."
"Those bad times were only a few years back, Rob. They could come again."
"Which is why I scout. The hostiles do it better each time they rise. If tribes war again, look out. It'll be worse than before."
Rob turned to Tim Murphy. "That brings me to your part in all this, Tim."
Tim Murphy felt himself shiver. He suspected he had already discovered who he had been. Rob Shatto had mentioned only one boy child. Tim Murphy, Tear the son of Swift Wing and Charlie Pierre had been . . . Tim waited for Quehana to say it.
"You're likely figurin' it out for yourself, Tim, so I'll come straight at it. You were born William Baskins, Jr. You were taken and traded to the Huron.
"Reason I know for sure is, of course, your birthmark, the tear under your shooting eye. There would not be two like that. Your father, William Baskins, liked showing the mark to everyone that came by." Rob laughed, "I remember Shikee claiming he might have such a mark needle poked onto himself. He claimed the maidens would go crazy over it." Rob shrugged, "Only trouble was the mark wouldn't have showed up on Shikee the way it did on your white hide.
"Anyway, I recognized the mark right off. Can't be no mistake."
Quehana hesitated, slicing pemmican before going on. "You sure you want to look into this anymore, Tim? Maybe what I've told you is enough to satisfy."
Murphy felt sweat on his hands, and his heart thudded leadenly. William Baskins, the name fell without meaning or feeling.
"I would like to know all that there is, Rob." He sighed, "Caraway claimed not knowing was always weaker than being informed."
"Huh, there's a lot of things I wish I didn't know. Some of 'em dang sure didn't make me stronger.
"There is only a fact or two left to tell. First is, your sister hasn't ever returned that I heard of, and I'd have been told because . . . your mother remarried. She and her new family live up the river a ways. Not that far above the old cabin really. They're farmin' close by a rapids called McKee's Half Falls."
Tim had no words. There had always been a sort of vague hope that he could someday know his beginnings, but this . . . Rob Shatto had laid it out like sun-drying fish. He already had the story, but he could get it all again firsthand . . . from his real mother. Tim felt himself shiver a little with the shock of it.
Rob said, "If you'd like we can hike over to Duncan's Island and look at the place.
"Then, if you're a'mind, we can walk up to the Half Falls and see your mother. Expect you'll be a powerful surprise to her, so I'd go in first and get her ready. Don't want her droppin' over or somethin'."
— — —
They did not go immediately. Rob wanted to wait until Tim got some decent footgear. Flat went to work with hide, punches, and thongs. She made the kind Rob liked. Double soled, the uppers could be folded down for cool comfort or laced high on the ankle so they would stay on through rough going. There was no war on, and moccasins did not have to be woods color. Flat daubed on a little paint to make Tim's attractive.
Elan warned, "Don't try keepin' up with Rob in the woods, Tim. Given the chance, he runs everywhere. You pick a pace you can hold to, and he'll slow for you. Try matchin' Quehana and you won't last more than a few miles. I found that out for myself many a year back."
Tim was sure of his own strength and doubted he would have to slow much for a man as large as Rob Shatto. All the runners Tim had seen had been small and wiry, like he had himself become. Powerful men had too much bulk to go fast for very long.
They shot on another day, and Tim fired Elan's black rifle. He liked the feel of the shorter barrels. There was still weight because two barrels were out front. Elan had worked out loads that fired each barrel to the same point at one hundred yards.
"That's far enough for me, Tim. Rob likes to make hits a quarter-mile out, but game wounded at extreme ranges sometimes walks off, and I sure ain't interested in trying for hostiles beyond a hundred steps. They're never standing still, so it's a waste of powder and ball too far out."
Rob said, "A two-barrel gun uses a back action lock, and that ain't as strong because it takes wood out of the wrist where a longrifle's weak anyway. A double barrel also balances different. Most don't like that difference. A two-barrel gun can shoot about as straight as a single barrel, but you can't get both barrels to hit the same spot at different ranges. If I were going to shoot long with Jack's gun, I'd get perfect with just one barrel. I'd reload that barrel and save the second for closer in work."
They had food, blankets, and their weapons. Rob guessed they'd be out at least two nights, maybe more. It depended on how long they spent at Martha Baskins Ellis's farm.
"Francis Ellis seems like a good man, Tim. After his wife died he and your mother married and warranted the land they're living on. This Ellis isn't close related to the ones west of here, I'm told. Probably of the same tribe if you go back far enough, though. Ellis had children, if I remember right, and they've added others since arriving at the Half Falls."
Because so many wives died in childbirth, half brothers and sisters were common. Among the tribes multiple squaws made half-relatives even more usual. Tim still had to digest it a little. Family was springing up all around him.
Rob said, "We'll take it easy at first. New moccasins need breaking in. Soak your feet in the creek and let the wet leather shape to your foot is the best way."
Easy? Quehana flitted among the trees. No branches whipped, barely a leaf stirred. He did not trot; Tim thanked the Great Spirit for that, but Shatto's easy stride ate ground, and Tim struggled to keep up.
With sweat dripping he gave up and, taking Elan's advice, cut back to a pace he could maintain. As predicted, Rob adjusted without comment.
Tim began to appreciate the stories he had heard about Quehana. Maybe he did make magical arrowpoints at that. One thing was for sure, never again would Tim doubt that big men—at least some big men—could possess speed and endurance far beyond those of most whites or Indians.
Chapter 9
Family
One of the Hulings now farmed the old Baskins' place. Marcus Huling, Rob explained, had been on Duncan's Island almost as early as William Baskins.
"Huling threw what he could onto a horse or two and went straight to Fort Hunter. He didn't make your pap's mistake of coming back. The Hulings have some money behind them, so they weren't facing starvation.
"I don't know if Marcus stayed at Fort Hunter or went on down to Philadelphia to live comfortable. I've heard it both ways. When peace broke out, he came back, bought out your mother and some others. Owns a lot of ground now."
Hired help was on the old Baskins' place. Rob said he wanted to look around. There was no disagreement.
When the massacre came up, the hired man became voluble. "Yep, right here is where it happened. That half-filled-in hole is where they found Will Baskins' body. That there cabin, we use it for storage now, was Baskins' house. The babes was last seen right here. Guess they was scalped and throwed into the river."
Tim felt his hackles rise at the descriptions, but experienced no personal twinges. There was nothing familiar. He had been too young.
When they had seen enough Rob led away. He halted just out of the fields. "You sure you want to go on, Tim? No telling how it'll turn out at the Half Falls."
"I have to see for myself, Rob." His voice was a trifle awed, "My mother, my real mother? Of course I want to see her."
The Ellis clearing lay on sloping ground close to the river. There were two cabins and a number of outbuildings. The home site was open to southern sun but protected from cold northern winds by close in tree cover. Rob would have cut the trees well back. Among trees enemies could come far too c
lose. He supposed the Ellises were among those who believed the time of the hostile was gone. All should pray that they were right. Lonely cabins like these were easy plucking.
A woman and a nearly-grown girl worked at an outdoor oven with plank tables ranged nearby. "Baking," Rob said only an instant before the yeasty scent of risen dough and baking flour reached them.
"That's probably your mother doing the baking. You sit down on this log while I get everybody ready." Rob hailed the cabin and took his time going in.
Tim thought it well that Quehana announced his own presence. Rob Shatto looked more Indian than many full bloods.
The woman shielded her eyes, looking to see who was coming. His mother. Tim struggled with the thought. Again the smell of baking drifted to him. He expected that the scent and sight of his real mother as she now stood would be his forever.
Francis Ellis was a block of a man. As red as a new brick and built about the same shape, his grip was powerful and his gaze straight ahead. He had heard of Rob Shatto and was quick to summon his wife for a private talk. They moved toward the river, so Tim rose and went in.
The girl saw him, of course, but stayed busy with her work. About his age, Tim guessed. Pretty as a picture with brown braids gathered into a bun.
After standing a while Tim said, "I'm Tim Murphy." He hoped there would not be an awkward wait.
There was not. He received a courteous dip of a knee and an acknowledging tip of brown tresses. Teeth flashed in a small smile. She said, "I am Dancer Ellis. Would you like to taste the fresh bread?" Without waiting for his answer she sliced a crusty end from the loaf farthest from the oven. To hand it she turned full on, and Tim Murphy suffered the impact of wide spaced dark eyes and lips as full as . . . he could not compare.
Tim took the bread and munched on it. He said it was delicious, but the taste did not really register. Tim Murphy was smitten. His face felt flushed, his heart pounded, and he felt a trifle shaky in the knees. His tongue got clumsy in his mouth, and when he wished to speak he had nothing worth saying. He heard Rob call and turned away managing, "I've got to go now," cursing himself for such a stupidly obvious statement. Heading toward the others, Tim exhaled vigorously a time or two, getting his senses cleared and his mind back on track.
Tim Murphy, Rifleman Page 10