Davey Crockett 6 Page 10

  Farley pushed his wide-brimmed hat back on his head and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “A year ago, my sister and a cousin were stolen. We had no idea who was to blame until recently. Two Claws is his name, and his village is in this area. We aim to take the women back or die in the attempt.”

  Frankly phrased, bravely stated. First impressions were always important to Davy. He liked the brash young Texian and sympathized with Farley’s plight, but he had another problem besides Flavius. “I’d be happy to oblige, but I can’t put Mrs. Dugan and her daughter in any more danger. They’ve been through pure hell, boys, and that’s the gospel.”

  Farley glanced at the wash. “Mrs. Dugan? She’s not your wife?”

  “A widow. She lost her man to the Pawnees.” Davy saw fit not to mention all the details. The Texians might hold what he had done to Alexander Dugan against him. “We were trying to reach St. Louis when the Comanches got ahold of my partner.”

  At that juncture Heather and Rebecca traipsed up out of the wash, Heather with a water skin. They were smiling, happy, refreshed. Their faces glistened, their hair was drenched, the tops of their dresses were soaked.

  Farley stood as one mesmerized, declaring under his breath, “My word, but she’s beautiful.”

  “That she is,” Kerr agreed.

  Davy lowered his rifle. The only danger the Texians posed was of an amorous nature. With their help, he just might rescue his friend yet. Gratefully, he accepted the skin and drank greedily, but not so greedily that he became sick.

  At long last his luck had turned.

  Now all he could do was pray that Flavius was still alive.

  Eight

  Flavius Harris slept as soundly as a baby his first night in the village, much to his surprise. He was at a loss to explain why. Maybe it was having a roof over his head for the first time in months, even if it was a hide roof and not the roughly hewn beams of a log cabin. Maybe it was the meal the old crone fed him that evening, a delicious stew laced with chunks of buffalo meat and wild onions. Or maybe being so cozy was the reason; the fire kept him toasty the whole night through. It was almost enough to make him thankful he was a captive.

  For once, Flavius awoke refreshed. He stretched, and smiled, and patted his stomach, wondering what tasty breakfast the old woman would serve. The whistle of her cane slicing the air was the only forewarning he had that he had earned her displeasure. It caught him on the left forearm, eliciting so much torment that he doubled over, pressing the arm against his stomach. “What the blazes was that for?” he hollered, glancing up.

  The white-haired fury had raised the cane for another swing. She snapped at him in her language, then pointed at the entrance. The flap hung open. Sunlight streamed inside, revealing that it was well past dawn.

  Was she mad because he had overslept? Flavius took a lesson from his coon dogs and groveled at her feet, saying, “I’m sorry!” When another blow was not forthcoming, he timidly looked up. She was outside, beckoning.

  Casting the blanket off, Flavius scrambled out into the glare of sunshine. He squinted in order to see. The village was going about its daily routine. Children played. Men sharpened knives and fixed bows and crafted lances. Women were engaged in a variety of tasks, from curing hides to sewing to drying meat. The latter made his mouth water.

  A mild hit on the leg reminded him not to let his thoughts stray. The old woman pointed at a pair of large jugs, then at him. Comprehending, he picked them up and dutifully followed her northward. The warriors and other women generally ignored him, but the children were fascinated. Many ran in close to touch or poke him, some using sharpened sticks. When one poked too hard, he paused to glare at the culprit.

  A swish of the cane heralded intense pain in his temple. Flavius nearly fell. His vision spun and his knees were briefly wobbly.

  Spitting commands, the crone gestured for him to keep going.

  Bowing meekly, Flavius obeyed. The boy who had poked him and some of the others laughed, and were brazen enough to pester him repeatedly until he came to the last of the lodges. As if by magic, the children abruptly peeled away.

  A hundred yards off gurgled a wide stream. Flavius did not have to be told what to do. Unbidden, he filled the two jugs. They were now so heavy that he had to struggle to lift them, and he tottered as he walked. He was on the lookout for the children, afraid they would renew their assault once he entered the village. But they stayed away.

  The old woman had him deposit the jugs in her lodge. Tired, Flavius sat, and just as promptly jumped up when she hit him across the shoulders. The jugs were but the first of many chores she had for him to do, chores that did not allow for a moment’s rest from sunrise to sunset. He hauled water for half the lodges in the village, he gathered dried buffalo droppings to use as fuel for fires, he collected firewood from a stand of cottonwoods to the northeast, he helped to skin two white-tailed deer, he carried heavy parfleches. It was safe to say that Flavius had never worked so hard any one day in his whole life.

  When the crone finally ushered him to her lodge and indicated that he should lie in his usual spot, Flavius was so relieved, he grabbed her hand and kissed the withered skin over her knuckles. It was a token of his appreciation, but she misconstrued. Yelping, she belabored him with the cane, desisting only when he curled into a ball with a blanket over him for protection.

  Muttering loudly, the woman walked off. Flavius, rubbing his shoulder, peeked out and saw her leave. He was alone for the first time since they brought him to the village. But he could not enjoy it much. His muscles ached, his sinews were sore, several of his joints bothered him, and his lower back was a mass of pain.

  “I’m still alive, though,” Flavius said aloud. It was something. Hell, it was everything.

  For how much longer was the issue. He had helped ready a large lodge for a council to be held later on. No doubt his fate would be one of the topics.

  Since he had arrived, no one had tried to harm him, which was encouraging but possibly misleading. For all Flavius knew, the Indians were biding their time, awaiting the tribal council’s decision. Should his death be decreed, the same people who had politely accepted the wood and water he brought earlier would just as politely carve out his heart and feed it to the camp dogs. That happened once, to a captive of the Creeks. Or so the story went.

  The old crone returned. She got the fire going, set up her pot, and made rabbit stew. The aroma grew thick enough to cut with a tomahawk, so heady and tantalizing that Flavius’s mouth would not stop watering. He eyed the bubbling broth as a gold-crazed prospector would eye a rich vein.

  A tin pot, he noted, not the type made from a buffalo paunch. A clue that at some time or other, these Indians had had dealings with white men. His fondest wish was that they traded with white traders on a regular basis. If so, somehow he would get word to those traders. Maybe effect a rescue.

  It was the sole spark of hope that flickered in Flavius’s breast, the spark he refused to let die, the salvation he longed for. It bolstered him when despair tore at his vitals. It kept him together when he felt like falling apart.

  The younger woman showed up with a friend, who tried to act indifferent but could not keep her eyes off him. He was used to it. All day Indians had stared at him as he went about the crone’s business. Everyone was curious about him, from the youngest sprout to the oldest hag.

  Flavius grinned at the young women, and regretted it. The crone tore into him like a riled painter, giving him a licking that he would not soon forget. She was so mad, she didn’t feed him. She ladled out stew to the younger ones and a heaping bowl for herself, but not a lick for Flavius.

  “It ain’t fair,” he groused.

  The camp quieted. It was the supper hour, the time when families gathered, when the warriors came in from the prairie and the women were done with the day’s work and the children were tuckered out from their playful antics. Flavius rested his cheek on a blanket and bemoaned the cruel fate that had delivered him into the clutches
of savages.

  He still did not know the name of the tribe. Twice he had tried to find out from the crone, only to receive a whack for his efforts.

  One good note. They weren’t Apaches. Flavius did not know exactly where Apaches lived, but he did know they inhabited deep caves high in the mountains, that they filed their teeth to points, that they feasted on human flesh, and that they were, on average, seven feet tall. His good friend Melvin Wurst had told him so, and Melvin should know, having read five or six books in his day.

  Flavius attempted to remember the names of all the tribes Davy had mentioned, but it was impossible. Davy was a storehouse of information, soaking up tidbits as a sponge soaked up water. Those same danged tidbits kindled Davy’s imagination and made him hanker after parts unknown.

  “Look at where that got us,” Flavius said. The women paid no heed. They were accustomed to his quirky habit of talking to himself, a habit he did not have when he originally left Tennessee.

  The old witch rose. Flavius backed against the hide and raised his arms to defend himself. But she brought over a bowl, not her cane. Gruffly, she thrust it into his hands, then shuffled to the fire, muttering.

  Flavius did not waste a second. He wolfed the meal so fast, he was licking the bowl clean before he realized he had eaten every last morsel. A huge burp escaped him, and he tensed. Back home, if he so much as uttered a tiny belch, Matilda lit into him with her powder primed. Belching was for pigs, she maintained. And she had not married a pig.

  It was one of the few compliments she ever paid him.

  Content, Flavius closed his eyes and rubbed his stomach. By his reckoning he was ten to fifteen pounds lighter than he had been when they started. Another couple of months and he would be slimmer than he had been since he crawled out of the cradle.

  He was getting ahead of himself. What made him think he would live out the night, let alone another two months?

  As if in answer, the flap parted and in marched three burly warriors. Flavius figured they would bind him, but they simply hauled him out and across to the large lodge. The hum of voices fell on his ears as he was shoved inside. Tripping, he had to fling an arm against the side for support. Silence fell, a silence so complete and unnerving that Flavius wanted to bolt.

  Two dozen of the most prominent warriors were present. They sat in a semicircle, staring at him. At their head was the same stocky warrior who had greeted the war party upon its return. Flavius smiled wanly and looked around for a place to sit. The question was solved by two of his escorts, who pushed him to a spot in the middle and shoved him to his knees.

  “Howdy,” Flavius said lamely.

  The warriors resumed their deliberations. They were dressed in the Indian equivalent of Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. Beaded buckskins, clean moccasins, feathers in their hair, the whole works.

  “What is your name?”

  Several seconds went by before it sank in that Flavius had heard English. Blankly, he gaped at the ring of stony faces. “Who—?” he bleated.

  “I asked your name, white dog.”

  The speaker was the chief, the stocky man who packed more solid muscle on his powerful frame than any two warriors. Piercing dark eyes fixed on Flavius, devouring him. They complemented a hawkish nose and peaked lips.

  “Harris, sir. Flavius Harris, from Tennessee by way of Kentucky and Maryland. There’s been a terrible misunderstanding—”

  The leader slashed a finger at the frontiersman. “Quiet, snake. You chatter like a woman. I will ask questions. You will answer them.”

  Gulping, Flavius nodded. Here was someone it would not do to trifle with. The man’s bearing, his tone, his every movement were those of someone who was accustomed to having his way, and woe to anyone stupid enough to buck him.

  “You wonder how I speak your tongue? I learned from a trader, from a missionary, from others. I am Two Claws. You have heard of me?”

  “No,” Flavius confessed. “Can’t say as I have. But as I was telling you, I’m not from these parts. If you were a Creek, it’s likely I’d know who you are, since the important Creeks are pretty well known in the canebrake—”

  The leader held his hand aloft. “You do it again, snake. Once more, and I will have your left thumb cut off. Would you like that?”

  Flavius shook his head so vigorously his teeth rattled. Leaning forward, the man made a tent of his thick fingers. “Let us understand each other, white man. I hate your kind. I hate what your people have done. I hate what they plan to do.” Thunder and lightning formed on his beetling brow. “You act confused. Tell me that you are not aware your people have moved onto land which has been ours since the beginning of all things. Tell me that your people do not intend to take all our land. That they do not want to drive us to new territory, make us live where we do not want to live.”

  “I couldn’t,” Flavius said. “That would be a lie. Our government did the same thing with the Creeks and others.”

  “You admit it?”

  “Why not? I didn’t have a hand in it.” Not the relocating, anyway. Flavius deemed it best not to mention his participation in the Creek War.

  “You are white.”

  “So? I don’t own a parcel of your land. Neither did my pa, or his pa. None of my kin ever did. And as far as I’m concerned, your people can live here until Armageddon.”

  The leader straightened. “Ar-ma-ged-on,” he repeated. “This is a new word. What does it mean?”

  “The end times,” Flavius said. “When the Devil and the Lord get to slugging it out over who rules Creation.” That, in a nutshell, was the gist of the many sermons the parson had delivered on the subject.

  “I know it not,” the man said. “But you are right. This land will be ours long after your kind has come to an end. Comanches are not Pimas or Otoes. We do not break in a strong wind. We bend, then snap back stronger than before.”

  Finally, Flavius had learned who his captors were. Davy had mentioned something about them once, but for the life of him, Flavius could not recollect what it had been.

  The leader grew animated. His hand closed on empty air as if on a throat, and he declared, “We will crush your people. We will drive them from our land. We will send them back to where they came from. Life will be as it was.”

  The man was deluding himself. Flavius knew that he was not the smartest person alive, but he was smart enough to realize there was no turning back the clock. “I’d be in your debt if you’d see fit to send me back to where I come from. Some food, some water, and I’m out of your hair. What do you say?”

  “I say your thumb will hang from my necklace.”

  “What?”

  Two Claws barked commands. The burly trio who had escorted Flavius to the council lodge now surrounded him. His arms were seized. The third man drew a long, shiny blade, then grasped the Tennessean’s left wrist.

  Flavius was too shocked to move. Shocked, and outright scared. He imagined the blade shearing through his thumb, imagined blood spurting and the agony he must endure. “Please, no,” he said, clenching his hand tight. To resist violently might only make the situation worse. Instead of a thumb, Two Claws might elect to punish him by having every finger chopped off. Maybe the whole hand.

  The warrior with the knife gripped Flavius’s left thumb and attempted to pry it wide. Flavius resisted. In retaliation, one of the other warriors seized him by the hair and brutally snapped his head back. The man prying at his thumb succeeded in raising it an inch. Flavius saw the keen edge of the blade aligned over the bottom joint.

  “I don’t deserve this!”

  A new voice intruded. Someone Flavius could not see was addressing the council in their own tongue. The warrior about to separate his digit from his palm looked up. So did the men holding his arms. Two Claws did not seem any too happy about the interruption and glowered at the party responsible.

  Suddenly, to Flavius’s immense joy, the warriors let go. The man with the knife stepped back and sheathed the weapon. A strange w
eakness afflicted Flavius, and everything spun before his eyes. He sank onto all fours.

  Two Claws was arguing with someone. Flavius twisted to learn who his benefactor was. The voice was vaguely familiar, as it should be, since it belonged to the tall warrior who had led the war party that captured him. Other leaders joined in, the older ones mainly. The younger men who sat near the entrance did not participate as much.

  At length Two Claws turned to Flavius. The crooked smirk was plastered in place. “Your white god protects you. You can keep your thumb, snake.”

  Flavius yearned to know what the argument had been about, but he was loath to open his mouth.

  Two Claws nodded at the tall warrior. “See him? He looks like a man, does he not? He dresses like a man. He sits in the councils of men. But he is a woman. He thinks we should talk peace with your kind. Thinks we can share our land.” Two Claws snorted. “Otter Belt is soft. I am not.”

  Still, Flavius would not risk angering the firebrand by saying anything.

  “I want to kill you. Slowly, as is fitting for an enemy. But Otter Belt says we should keep you as a slave. That you do not deserve death. That it was not you who killed my sister’s son.” Hatred contorted Two Claws’s countenance. “Who did it is not important. All whites are the same.”

  Flavius glanced at Otter Belt, who was huddled with others. Only a couple of warriors were paying attention to Two Claws. Apparently, few Comanches were fluent in English to any degree, which was just his bad luck. It would have been interesting to see how Otter Belt took to being branded a woman.

  “You were not alone,” Two Claws continued. “We will find your friends. And we will kill the one who shot Yellow Rope.” The warrior drummed his fingers on a knee. “As for you, the council must decide.”

  Flavius was slow-witted at times, but he was not stupid. He knew this meant Two Claws would do his utmost to convince the assembled leaders that they should put him to death, while Otter Belt and a few others would press to have him spared.

  Springing to his feet, Flavius faced the men on either side of Otter Belt. As he had done out on the prairie, he made the hand sign for “friend.” Shifting a quarter-turn to the right, he repeated the gesture, and again another quarter-turn, until he was facing Otter Belt once more. The tall warrior wore a knowing smile.