Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4)

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  Davy Crockett lived for adventure and just had to see what lay over the next mountain. His wanderlust surely kept life interesting for the intrepid pioneer and his old friend Flavius...but sometimes it got a little too interesting. Like when Davy and Flavius decided to take a canoe down the Mississippi. It had seemed a simple enough idea at the time, but Davy hadn’t counted on running into hardcases out to grab everything he had—or hostile Indians who wanted his scalp. And that all seemed like a stroll in the woods compared to what was waiting for him up ahead—an old Indian myth that was all too real as far as Davy was concerned.

  DAVY CROCKETT 4: MISSISSIPPI MAYHEM

  By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson

  First Published by Leisure Books in 1997

  Copyright © 1997, 2016 by David Robbins

  First Smashwords Edition: July 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover © 2016 by Ed Martin

  Visit Ed here

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  To Judy, Joshua and Shane.

  Chapter One

  “Look yonder!” Davy Crockett whooped. “We’ve struck it!”

  His close friend and traveling companion, Flavius Harris, stared glumly at the broad expanse of water ahead. He did not share the brawny Irishman’s enthusiasm. So what if they had found the mighty Mississippi? Rivers were all the same to him. A person could drown in any one of them.

  Davy rose in his saddle for a better view. They were descending a low hill bordered by reeds. Across the river reared steep limestone bluffs. A few ducks were out in the middle of the river. As he scanned the waterway, a large fish leaped from the water, shimmering silver in the bright sunlight, and came down with a spectacular splash.

  Excitement tingled Davy’s scalp. He had never seen the Mississippi before. But he sure had heard a lot about it. Everyone had. “The Great River,” the Indians called it. One of the largest and longest in the whole world. Its northern reaches were largely unexplored. But at the southern end, cities and towns were sprouting faster than ripe seeds in a fertile field.

  The third member of their party, a beefy specimen whose double chin was covered with stubble, pointed at the reeds and said, “The canoe is down there. We have to hide it or the savages will help themselves.”

  “Worthless vermin,” muttered the fourth man, a skinny fellow whose grungy homespun clothes fitted his sour personality. “I wish to hell the government would exterminate every last one. It’d be doing us common folks a favor.”

  Davy made no comment. Experience had taught him that nothing he could say would change a bigot’s mind.

  Flavius regarded the pair with frank dislike. He didn’t trust either as far as he could toss a bull buffalo. It surprised him that Davy had accepted their offer. But then, he had to keep in mind that his pard’s hankering for adventure was as boundless as the ocean.

  “Follow us,” said Grizwald, the man with the stubble. “We’ll take you right to it.”

  “Sure will,” confirmed Zeist, the skinny one. His smirk revealed yellow teeth and a gap where two of his upper ones had been.

  Davy moved his sorrel aside so the pair could pass. Across his thighs rested his Kentucky long rifle. Liz, he called it, in honor of his second wife, Elizabeth. Buckskins clothed his muscular frame. Atop his head perched a coonskin cap, a rarity there in Illinois, although not in his neck of the woods back in Tennessee.

  Thinking of home brought a smile to his lips. If all went well, in a few short weeks he would be holding Elizabeth in his arms and have a swarm of young’uns underfoot. He could hardly wait.

  Unknown to Davy, Flavius was also thinking about home. To him, it was beginning to seem as if they would never reach it. Their gallivant had turned into a trek of epic proportions.

  Flavius had taken to fretting that his friend’s wanderlust might well be the death of them. Here they were, hundreds of miles from Tennessee, deep in woods bordering the Mississippi where hostiles were known to lurk, about to embark on the most harebrained stunt Flavius had ever heard of. It was enough to give a grown man fits!

  The game trail wound down to the shore. In a clear space adjoining the reeds, Grizwald and Zeist reined up. They slid off their mounts, waded into the cattails, and within moments returned dragging a long canoe, which they proceeded to haul onto dry land.

  “Here it is, just like we promised,” Grizwald said, adding proudly, “We built it our own selves.”

  Zeist licked his thin lips. “Do we have a deal or not, boys?”

  Were it up to Flavius, he would have declined. Sadly, he held his tongue as Davy climbed down to examine the craft that was supposed to carry them all the way to St. Louis.

  The canoe had been fashioned primarily from birch bark, the seams sealed with pine pitch. Davy had seen few better made, and confessed as much, mentioning, “It must have taken a long time to do the work.”

  “Oh, about four weeks,” Grizwald said, even as Zeist declared, “Seven weeks, give or take.” Startled, they exchanged troubled glances.

  Suddenly Davy knew. They were lying. The pair of Peorians had not constructed the canoe at all. More than likely, they had done the very thing Grizwald accused the Indians of doing: they had stolen it from a local tribe.

  “Who cares how long it was?” Zeist said irritably, and glanced longingly at the horses. “Are you willin’ to trade, like we agreed? The canoe for your animals, in an even swap?”

  Flavius could not keep silent. “I don’t think it’s a fair trade,” he remarked. “Two horses are worth more than a single canoe.”

  Grizwald frowned. “Maybe so. But this canoe will get you to St. Louis faster than you could ride. And from St. Louis, it’s a short jaunt to your homes.”

  Which was exactly the reason Davy cottoned to the notion of trading, and sailing on down the river. It promised new sights, new sounds. The lure of new land and new people. The idea was downright intoxicating. “I’m all for it,” he announced, looking at his friend, “but we won’t swap if you’re dead set against making the trip.”

  Flavius squirmed, uncomfortable at having to render the final decision. Every instinct in his body screamed for him to refuse, but guilt assailed him at the prospect of denying Davy anything. “I reckon it won’t be that bad,” he reluctantly allowed.

  Davy rose and extended his right hand toward Grizwald. “We have a deal, gentlemen. Let us strip off our saddles, then the horses are yours.”

  Smiling, Grizwald shook. As he did, he nodded at Zeist, who abruptly sidled to the left and elevated his rifle. “All right, bumpkins. The time has come. The first one who moves gets a lead ball in the brain.”

  Davy tensed to bring Liz into play, but Grizwald’s grip firmed, preventing him from using his right hand.

  “Don’t try it, Crockett. You’ll be dead before you can take a step.”

  Flavius started to bring up his rifle, but the muzzle of Zeist’s gun swung in his direction, changing his mind. At that range the man could hardly miss. “Hold on! What’s this about?” Flavius demanded.

  Chuckli
ng, Grizwald let go of Davy and stepped back to bring his own rifle to bear. “I should think you would be able to figure it out for yourself, fat man. Your animals and your effects will fetch a pretty price.”

  “You aimed to kill us all along?” Flavius said. “That offer you made at the tavern was just a trick to get us out here so you can rub us out for our belongings?”

  Zeist snickered and winked at Grizwald. “Smart one, ain’t he? Makes you wonder how he manages to lace up his moccasins in the mornin’.”

  Davy needed to stall. “Others saw us with you,” he said. “If something happens to us, they’ll put two and two together.”

  “Hogwash,” Grizwald replied. “In the first place, no one will ever find your bodies. We’ll chop ’em up and leave the bits and pieces for the buzzards and other scavengers, like we’ve done a dozen times before.” He paused, enjoying their plight. “In the second place, everyone in the tavern heard you say that you’re bound for St. Louis. No one will think twice if you’re never heard from again.”

  “That’s right,” Zeist said, eyes gleaming like those of a crazed raven. “The only friend you’ve got in these parts is John Kayne. And he went off on a trappin’ expedition with a bunch of others.”

  Davy tensed to spring. The cutthroats were right on all counts. But he would not stand there as meek as a little lamb and let himself be slaughtered. Even though he had as much chance of living as a wax cat in hell, he prepared to fling himself at the duo.

  Flavius knew his friend well. They had been in plenty of scrapes, and not once, even when hopeless odds were stacked against them, had Davy given in. Among the people of the canebrake, the Crockett clan were notorious for their fighting spirit.

  So Flavius figured the Irishman would try something. To help in that regard, he engineered a distraction, the only one he could come up with on the spur of the moment. Hoisting his right leg, he simply slid off the far side of his bay.

  Flavius counted on neither of the men being willing to hurt the horse. Dead, it wouldn’t fetch any money. But he counted wrongly. For as he dropped, Zeist snapped off a shot, narrowly missing the bay’s neck.

  Davy Crockett seized the moment. At the instant Zeist fired, Grizwald’s gaze darted toward the bay. In a twinkling, Davy grabbed the barrel of Grizwald’s rifle and yanked on it, while sidestepping. The rifle went off, spewing acrid smoke, the ball smashing into the ground in front of Davy’s sorrel, which reared and nickered.

  Venting a lusty oath, Grizwald clawed for a flintlock wedged under his leather belt.

  Davy was not about to let him draw it. Wrenching the spent rifle from the scoundrel’s grasp, Davy drove the stock up and in. It connected with Grizwald’s mouth as the pistol leaped clear, pulping both lips and crunching teeth in a geyser of scarlet drops. The pistol fell.

  “Lem! Help me!” Grizwald sputtered, tottering backward and raising his arms to ward off another blow.

  Flavius saw Lem Zeist pivot toward Davy and produce a long butcher knife. Davy was so intent on Grizwald that he failed to notice.

  Rolling onto his side, Flavius extended his rifle between the prancing bay’s legs, took a hasty bead, and fired just as Zeist cocked an arm to plunge the blade into Crockett’s broad back. Because he aimed hastily, the shot caught Zeist high in the shoulder, not in the heart as Flavius wanted.

  Jolted by the impact, Zeist fell to one knee, the knife plopping at his side.

  Davy glimpsed all this while closing on Grizwald, who flourished a knife of his own. Discarding the rifle, Davy resorted to the tomahawk he had obtained during the Creek War. Constant practice had lent him the skill of a Creek, a skill he now relied on to parry a flurry of cuts and slashes meant to gut him or open his jugular.

  Davy and Grizwald circled each other furiously, Grizwald with gore and pieces of teeth dribbling down his chin.

  “You’re dead, bastard!” the man blustered. “I’m going to skin you and make a possibles bag from your hide!”

  Davy did not respond. Talking distracted a man when he needed to have his full wits about him. Blocking a thrust at his abdomen, he swiped at the cutthroat’s head only to have the tomahawk met by Grizwald’s knife. Steel rang, and his swing was deflected.

  Over by the bay, Flavius had drawn one of his pistols, but he couldn’t shoot. It was all he could do to keep from being trampled. Having a rifle discharged under its belly had panicked his bay, which was dancing about as if its legs were aflame. Rolling right and left, Flavius dodged a hailstorm of pounding hooves.

  Zeist, meanwhile, had recovered enough to pick up his knife and rotate toward his companion. A sly look came over his face, and he coiled.

  Davy continued to circle, seeking an opening. His adversary was skilled, though, and foiled him time and again. Inadvertently, they had wound up at the water’s edge. High reeds flanked them as Grizwald, snarling fiercely, lunged at Davy’s chest.

  Davy threw himself backward. As he did, he collided with something or someone behind him. A knife speared under his left arm from behind, nearly slicing his hunting shirt. Down he went, a struggling form under him.

  Realizing who it was, Davy flipped to the right. Zeist’s knife whizzed past his ear. As he scrambled into a crouch, Grizwald attacked, his blade shearing space occupied by Davy’s head a moment before.

  Straightening, Davy battled both of them. They had him cornered, the river at his back. Giving as good as he got, he slowly retreated, cautious steps taking him into the reeds. Neither of the killers had connected, but it was only a matter of time.

  A glance showed Davy his friend’s plight. No help would come from that quarter unless Flavius rolled clear of the bay.

  Grizwald and Zeist paused. They traded looks. Grizwald winked, then nodded and roared, “Now!”

  Simultaneously, both men leaped. Two glistening knives sought Davy’s heart. He tried to jump to the rear, but his left foot became entangled and he crashed down among the reeds. Water splashed, soaking part of his pants and shirt. His coonskin cap slipped but did not fall.

  Frantically, Davy surged upright. He knocked one knife away, then another. The pair were grinning, sure of themselves, confident that in another few moments he would be worm food.

  Despair welled up in Davy’s breast. Despair that might have spelled doom for other men. Despair that would have weakened their limbs at the crucial moment.

  But despair had the opposite effect on the Irishman from Tennessee. From infancy he had been taught to shun weakness, that human frailty was the bane of existence.

  As Davy’s pa had so often said, “Any man worthy of the name never gives up. A man has to have true grit, boy. Prove your mettle. Don’t make me ashamed of you.”

  The Crockett outlook was reflected in the family motto: “Always be sure you’re right, then go ahead.”

  So now, with two cutthroats thirsting to spill his blood, their knives weaving a threatening tapestry that inched ever closer, Davy Crockett called on the reserves of grit and willpower that had seen him safely through the Creek War and near-deadly bouts with a mysterious illness.

  Gritting his teeth, Davy gave the pair a shock by doing that which they least anticipated. He attacked them. A bound put him between them. Whirling, he whipped the tomahawk at Zeist’s thigh and had the satisfaction of hearing the skinny killer screech like a woman in labor. Twisting on the balls of his feet, he evaded Grizwald’s blade, then arced the tomahawk into the Illinoisan’s side.

  Severely wounded, Grizwald staggered, clasping a hand to the spurting gash. “Damn you!” he raged.

  Zeist was down, holding his leg and sobbing hysterically.

  Davy backed off and palmed a pistol. His breath came in wracking gasps, his temples drummed to the beat of his racing pulse. As scrapes went, this one had been much too close to suit him.

  Flavius finally pushed to his feet and rushed over. Covering the ruffians, he said, “Sorry. I damn’ near had my noggin caved in.”

  Davy nodded. No apology was needed. Some folk
s back home branded the Harris family no-account, but Flavius had proven time and again that he was willing to lay down his life for a true friend. No higher compliment could be paid a man.

  Grizwald glowered. “If I’d been a shade quicker—” he said, then focused his spite on Zeist, who had not stopped blubbering like a five-year-old. “Shut up, fool!” he fumed. When his partner failed to heed, he kicked Zeist in the ribs. “You ain’t worth the powder and lead it would take to shoot you!”

  Warily, Davy collected their weapons and placed them in the center of the canoe. Next, he stripped off his saddle and the parfleches he used to store his effects and did the same with them. Returning, he trained his pistol on the now quiet cutthroats so Flavius could go add his belongings.

  “What do you aim to do with us?” Grizwald demanded.

  “A deal is a deal,” Davy said. “We’re taking the canoe and leaving our mounts.”

  “What about our guns and knives?”

  Davy shook his head. “As my friend pointed out, our animals are worth more than the canoe. We’ll make up the difference by taking your rifles and such.”

  Despite being covered, Grizwald bristled. “You can’t do that, you son of a bitch! What if we run into hostiles on our way back to the settlement? We wouldn’t stand a prayer unarmed.”

  “How much of a chance did you give us, mister?” Davy retorted sternly. “Be thankful I’m a man of my word. By rights, I should let the horses loose to roam. You certainly don’t deserve them.”

  “Amen to that, brother,” Flavius quipped. He was removing his saddle, slowly. Try as he might, he could not come up with a compelling reason to forget about the canoe trip and keep their horses.

  Zeist had both hands clamped to his thigh. “What about me?” he whined. “I’m bleeding to death. You can’t leave me like this!”

  “Make a fire and cauterize the cut,” Davy suggested. On several occasions he’d had to do likewise, the most notable instance being the time a black bear, presumed dead, had turned out to be very much alive.