Davy Crockett 7

  CONTENTS

  About Texican Terror

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Piccadilly Publishing

  When Davy Crockett and his old friend Flavius Harris led a small party of settlers into San Antonio, all he expected was a sleepy Texican town. He didn’t realize San Antonio lived in terror of the vicious freebooters who pillaged the countryside and laughed even at the Spanish army. But when the bandits kidnapped one of Davy’s party, they may have taken on more than they could handle. Davy’s tracking and fighting abilities were legendary throughout the west, and he would use every ounce of skill he had to hunt his human quarry through the Texas badlands—along a trail that could only lead to death.

  To Judy, Joshua, Shane.

  One

  One moment the prairie was peaceful, quiet. The next, up out of a gully rushed six grungy horsemen. Riders in grimy buckskins and greasy homespun garb. Men who were armed to the teeth. Men who bore the cruel stamp of vicious and cunning natures on their swarthy faces.

  Davy Crockett was taken completely by surprise. Lost in thought, he had been drifting southward, on the lookout for San Antonio de Bexar. Something about that name appealed to him. It had a nice ring to the ear. Once he reached it, he could give serious thought to returning to his beloved Tennessee and his wife and family. A step long overdue.

  The brawny Irishman was thinking about Elizabeth and their kids when the riders streamed out of the gully. Startled, he nonetheless leveled his rifle and placed his thumb on the hammer. Liz, he called her, in honor of his wife.

  The six men acted indifferent to the threat. Fanning out into a crescent, they closed in, halting about twenty feet out. In the center was a husky man whose bristly beard and dark, beady eyes lent him the aspect of a bear. A mean bear, if the gleam in those eyes was any indication. “Howdy, hoss,” he declared gruffly. “Fancy comin’ on another white man out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Yes, fancy that,” tittered a scarecrow who was missing three of his upper front teeth. He also had a nervous tic; his left eyelid kept twitching. “Nice horse you’ve got there, stranger. Nice rifle and pistols, too.”

  Davy Crockett was no fool. Smiles and banter did not deceive him. Although a newcomer to the vast, sprawling Spanish-ruled land of Texas, he had heard about human wolves like these. Freebooters, they were called. Which was just another word to describe robbers and killers. Vermin who strayed over the border onto Spanish soil to prey on anyone and everyone. Of late the raids had become so widespread and brutal that the people of Nacogdoches were reportedly thinking of abandoning their East Texas town, one of only three established communities in all of Texas.

  The husky freebooter’s beady eyes darted beyond Crockett and swept the plain. “You all alone, hoss?”

  “I wish I may be shot if I’m not,” Davy lied. He was not about to tell them about the others, in his party. “On my way to San Antonio. You gents wouldn’t happen to know how far that would be?”

  “Oh, a day’s ride or so,” answered the leader. “You should strike on some farms sooner than that.”

  “Yes.” The scarecrow snickered. “Plenty of sod tillers movin’ on in of late. Most don’t even have permission.”

  “Are you boys farmers too?” Davy asked, playing the innocent. He pretended to overlook the sly glances they exchanged at his expense.

  “Not exactly,” the leader said smugly. His bushy brows knit. “That’s quite a drawl you’ve got there, mister. You wouldn’t happen to be from Kentucky, by any chance?”

  “No. I’m from the great sovereign state of Tennessee,” Davy boasted. “Land of milk and honey. And the prettiest womenfolk you’re likely to see this side of a Turkoman’s harem.”

  The leader casually rested both hands on the rifle slanted across his thighs. “Got yourself a way with words, pilgrim.”

  “Speechifying comes natural to the Irish,” Davy quipped. “When we’re in our cups, we’ll talk your ears off.” He was stalling, hoping against hope his friends would realize what had happened and come to his aid. If not, he was as good as dead. Six to one were impossible odds.

  The scarecrow was fidgeting as if he had ants in his britches. “Enough jabberin’, Spike. Let’s get on with it, shall we? I want to be back across the border by the end of the week, you know.”

  The husky leader frowned. “Damn you, Horace. You’re always so impatient. One day it’ll be the death of you.” To Davy he said, “It’s like this, friend. We aim to take your horse and your guns and all your effects. So make it easy and fork ’em over. ’Cause if you don’t, you’ll be worm food before you can bat an eye.”

  As if on cue, most of the freebooters trained rifles on the Tennessean. Horace cocked his and sighted squarely on Crockett’s forehead. “I love to see brains gush out,” he mentioned matter-of-factly.

  Davy had frozen. To paraphrase the Bible, there was a time for a man to fight and a time for him to try to talk his way out of one. This particular instance fell into the latter category. “Now, hold on, fellers,” he said good-naturedly. “You’d steal from a fellow white man? You’d leave him at the mercy of wild beasts and Indians?”

  “Sure would,” Horace said.

  Spike sighed loudly. “Sorry, friend. It’s what we do. Pickin’s is easy on this side of the Sabine River. Ain’t no law to speak of. And there aren’t enough Spanish soldiers to patrol everywhere at once.”

  Horace was so eager to squeeze the trigger, he trembled in anticipation. “Tell him your life’s story, why don’t you? What’s gotten into you, Spike? He’s just another no-account would-be settler who should have stayed to home.”

  “Refresh my memory, Horace,” Spike said testily. “Which one of us is top dog here?”

  The scarecrow’s head snapped up. Genuine fear replaced his cocky attitude. “Hold on, now. Don’t go gettin’ riled. I didn’t mean nothin’. Honest. If you want to pass the time of day with this jasper, be my guest.”

  “That’s better,” Spike said.

  Davy cleared his throat. “If all you want is my possibles and my animal, go right ahead and take them. I won’t lift a finger to stop you.”

  Horace tittered again. “Wouldn’t help you none if you did, southerner. It didn’t help that dirt farmer we raided last night, either.”

  Spike moved so quickly, his body was a blur. The stock of his rifle swept up and around and caught Horace on the shoulder, dumping the skinny freebooter from the saddle.

  Squawking like a stricken hen, Horace tumbled. Almost immediately he bounded to his feet, but he was shaken and it showed. “Now, what in tarnation did you do that for?

  “Be thankful it’s all I did,” Spike said. “You should have the Devil to pay for jawin’ too damn much.” He leaned toward the scarecrow and growled, “One of these days I’m liable to sew that mouth of yours shut with catgut.”

  The squabble worked in Davy’s favor. Every second the freebooters squandered increased the likelihood of his traveling companions noticing. He had to be ready. To that end, he slid his feet from the stirrups without being obvious. “Seems to me you boys have picked a rough life for yourselves,” he prattled. “From what I hear, neither government cottons much to your kind. Sooner or later they’re bound to get you.”

  “Later rather than sooner,” Spike predicted. “I know all the tricks. Got my start back with Nolan, rustling horses.” The Irishman’s blank expression prompted him to explain, “Phil Nolan. Don’t tel
l me you never heard of him? Hell, he was the living terror of Texas for a good number of years. Ran the Spaniards ragged, he did. Until one day the soldiers ambushed him and sent his ears to the governor.”

  Davy could not help musing that it was a fitting fate for a living terror, but he held his tongue. Shifting his weight, he tensed.

  Horace muttered up a storm. Averting his gaze from Spike, he stepped to his sorrel to climb back on. “Fine state of affairs,” he groused aloud, “when your own pard hauls off and hits you.”

  Spike nodded at Crockett. “All right, friend. Hand over your belongings. And no tricks, you hear? Not if you want to go on breathin’.”

  The freebooters were fooling no one. Davy knew they could not let him live. One of the reasons the renegades had lasted so long was their ironclad rule to never, ever leave witnesses. He started to extend Liz, even though he had no intention of letting them take her. “Here you go.”

  At that juncture one of the other cutthroats stiffened and peered intently northward. “Say? What’s that flash yonder?”

  The crack of a rifle punctuated the question. Davy heard the distinct thud of the heavy ball smashing into the freebooter’s skull. It burst out the other side, showering hair and gore in a wide circle. For a few heartbeats the lifeless husk sat rigid, then the man oozed from his horse like melted butter.

  It was Davy’s cue. Leaping from his mount, he fired in midair, Liz booming and spewing smoke and hot lead. Total shock etched Spike’s bristly features as the shot smashed into his sternum. Davy did not see the cutthroat fall, for the next instant the ground rushed up to meet him, and Davy rolled. Letting go of the rifle, he grabbed a pistol, aware that bedlam had erupted above.

  Men cursed lustily and snapped off return fire. One screamed in agony. Horses whinnied and shied. To the north other rifles opened up, and for a bit the smack-smack-smack of bullets was constant.

  In the brief time it took for Davy to surge into a crouch, half the freebooters had been blasted into eternity. Horace was still unscathed, though, and reining his mount around to flee. Davy took aim. The scarecrow spotted him and clawed at a flintlock.

  Davy fired before the barrel could clear. His .55 caliber smoothbore packed a powerful wallop, and at that range the shot lifted Horace clean off the saddle and flung him to the grass in a wretched, crumpled heap.

  Only one freebooter escaped. He did so by slipping over the side of his mount, Comanche-style, and racing to the east at breakneck speed.

  The Irishman did not give chase. For one thing, his horse was weary from days of constant travel. For another, he did not care to be separated from his friends, not when they were so close to their destination.

  Unlimbering the other flintlock, Davy moved to a man who wheezed and writhed in torment. A spurting hole high on the chest testified to a severe lung wound. “You’re not long for this world, mister. Want me to put you out of your misery?”

  The man stopped writhing long enough to vigorously shake his head.

  “Suit yourself,” Davy said. “But you’re only going to suffer a lot longer.” Relieving the doomed soul of weapons, Davy set them aside. As he straightened, a commotion heralded the arrival of the unlikely bunch fate had thrown him in with.

  First and foremost was Flavius Harris. As the Irishman’s best friend, Flavius had been at Crockett’s side every long, harrowing step of the way from far distant Tennessee—and regretted every minute of it. When Davy first proposed going on a “little gallivant,” Flavius had imagined being gone two weeks at the most. Yet it had been over two months since Flavius last set eyes on his quaint cabin and domineering wife, Matilda. Not to mention his prized coon dogs.

  “Consarn it, you gave me a scare,” Flavius said as he pounded up. “What were you thinking? Why didn’t you just hightail it back to us the moment those scum appeared?”

  Nothing scared Flavius more than the thought of losing Davy. The notion of finding his way back to Tennessee alone was downright terrifying. Flavius was no fool. He knew his limitations. Without Crockett, they would not have survived as long as they had.

  “Are you all right, Davy?” asked a stunning blonde who rode a bay bareback. Heather Dugan had been stranded on the prairie with her daughter, and if not for the two Tennesseans she would not be alive.

  “I thought those varmints had you for sure,” commented the pretty bundle riding double with Heather. A product of city life, young Becky had taken to talking like the frontiersmen. “Good thing Mr. Tanner is a fine shot.”

  Farley Tanner was a Texican, one of the rare new breed of hardy settlers carving homesteads out of the wilderness. The Spanish government had granted him an extensive land grant, which he planned to one day develop into a sprawling ranch. A broad-shouldered, strapping man, he favored a pair of elaborate ivory-handled flintlocks that were wedged under a wide studded belt. He was also a fine shot with a rifle.

  On the same horse, clinging to her brother’s arms, sat Marcella Tanner. Just over a week before she had been a captive of the dreaded Comanches. Thanks to her brother and a small group from San Antonio, aided by Davy and Flavius, she was free and safe. And as happy as a lark.

  The other two members of their party were Ormbach, a farmer, and Taylor, whose gray-streaked hair marked him as someone of experience and wisdom. Once a hunter by trade, he had plans to build a successful business in San Antonio.

  Davy regarded them all fondly. Together they had fought Comanches, battled the elements, resisted blistering heat and parching thirst. Mutual hardship had forged a bond neither time nor distance would ever sever. In the back of his mind Davy was toying with the idea of convincing Liz to pack up their brood and move to Texas. An unlikely proposition, what with all her kin being in Tennessee.

  Taylor and Ormbach also rode double, the result of having only five mounts for the eight of them. Now Taylor slid down and cracked a grin. “At least we have all the horses we need, with some to spare.”

  “And we’re only a day out of San Antonio,” Davy said, repeating the information Spike had imparted.

  “That’s my guess,” Taylor agreed. Nudging one of the dead freebooters with a toe, he remarked, “We’ve done Texas a favor today. Dirty business, but there’s no telling how many poor unfortunates these polecats murdered.”

  “There are more of them?” Flavius asked. He recalled one of the Texicans saying something to that effect, and he anxiously scanned the tall grass.

  “A lot more,” Farley Tanner said. “No one knows exactly how many. Moses Austin told me he reckons upwards of two hundred. This was a small bunch.”

  Ormbach snorted. “Small bands, big bands, they’re all the same. Vultures, scavenging off the sweat and toil of decent folks. Wouldn’t upset me none if every last one was skinned alive and staked out on anthills, Injun-style.”

  The farmer’s sentiments confirmed for Davy how intensely the Texicans felt about the marauders. Some fifteen years before in 1805, the state of affairs had become so wretched, with so much bloodletting and widespread mayhem, the United States and Mexican governments had sat down and ironed out an agreement to solve the crisis. Or so they thought.

  Their solution was to set up a so-called neutral zone. The broad area lay between a tributary of the Red River and the Sabine. No citizens from either country were allowed into it, the idea being that this would serve as a buffer zone and stem the crimson tide.

  On paper, at any rate, it was a great idea. But, as with most government brainstorms, it fell apart from its own weight. Spanish authorities did not have enough soldiers to police the zone, and American authorities couldn’t be bothered.

  So the freebooters had gone on butchering and plundering to their hearts’ content. And now they were poised to take over a full third of Texas unless something was done. Or so the rumor mill had it.

  Davy escorted the women a short distance farther along while the Texican men stripped the bodies. No burials were held. No religious words were said over the corpses. The freebooters we
re left where they had sprawled. Presently scavengers would catch the scent. Coyotes and buzzards and other creatures would converge. In a few days not so much as a single shred of flesh would remain.

  Becky tried to look back, but her mother gripped her shoulders.

  “Don’t you dare, child! I won’t have you staring at naked men.” Heather swung her daughter around. “It’s bad enough, all the killing and ugliness you’ve seen. I have to draw the line somewhere.”

  Marcy Tanner was not upset at all. Glancing over a slender shoulder, she yawned, then brushed at her golden bangs. “If you’ve seen one naked man, you’ve seen them all,” she said more coldly than Flavius would have thought her capable of. “But you’re wise to spare the girl from the worst of frontier life for as long as you can, Heather. It can be positively awful at times. Certainly not fit for a lady like yourself.”

  “I’m hardly a lady,” Heather said, and did not elaborate.

  Flavius did not bother to look back either. Truth to tell, the sight of blood made him downright squeamish. Oh, he’d fought in the Creek War and been involved in more than his share of savage scrapes since. But he could never get used to it, as Davy and so many acquaintances seemed to.

  The extra mounts were an unexpected godsend, one Flavius would have been much more grateful for weeks before. The more horses they had, the sooner they’d reach San Antonio. And the sooner they reached San Antonio, the quicker they would be on their way to Tennessee. Flavius could hardly wait.

  Presently the Texicans returned. Two of the horses were pressed into service as beasts of burden, laden with blankets and clothes and the like. Among the booty was a parfleche crammed with pemmican. Where the freebooters had obtained it was a mystery.

  “See these beads?” Ormbach said. “It’s Cheyenne, or I’m the Queen of England.”

  “You’re loco, is what you are,” Taylor countered. “It’s Kiowa, plain and simple. I should know. I lived with them a short while during my buffalo-hunting days.”