Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4) Page 10

  The whole tableau was unreal. Yet it was happening. It was real, all right, but it was reality gone mad.

  The wide eyes of the Old Ones showed that they had no control over the creature they worshiped. They were just as likely to be its meal as a deer or elk or buffalo. Why they had not sought to slay the creature long ago, Davy could not fathom.

  Flavius stepped into the open, Matilda tucked to his shoulder. He had seen the piasa circling high up in the sky, so high that it had been no more than a tiny speck, and he had tried to warn his friend. Then the monster had streaked down from the heavens like a living bolt of lightning. In dumbfounded horror Flavius had expected to see Davy torn limb from limb.

  Now, with the bird hopping on the Irishman’s heels, Flavius aimed at its chest, cocked Matilda, and fired.

  At the crack of the rifle, the piasa slowed. Its head rose and it glared around. Suddenly straightening its wings, the bird bounded upward, flapped furiously, and rapidly gained altitude.

  Flavius dashed to the spare rifle, propped against a bole. He brought it to his shoulder, but the monster flew above the trees, preventing him from getting a clear shot.

  Davy paused next to him and clapped him on the shoulder. They traded looks that expressed their feelings at being reunited. Then Davy motioned at the milling Old Ones, who would not ignore them for long. “Let’s get out of here!” he suggested.

  They sped southward, staying among the trees where the Thunderbird was less likely to attack.

  Flavius was overjoyed to be with Davy again. He couldn’t wait to reclaim their canoe and sail on down the river, leaving this land of nightmare far behind. “Where’s Hoodoo Tom?” he asked.

  “I wish I knew,” Davy said. His fervent hope was that the trapper had made it safely to their camp and was waiting for them to arrive. If not, he had an obligation to go back and hunt for him.

  “How far do you reckon we are from the canoes?” Flavius asked. The farther they had to go, the higher the risk.

  “I’m not sure,” Davy conceded. To pinpoint their position, he needed to see the river. Veering toward it, he stopped under a willow growing a stone’s throw from shore. Thirty feet out was one of the countless sandbars that lined the waterway.

  No other landmarks were visible, but Davy seemed to recall passing that point, and made a calculated guess. “I’d say we have fourteen or fifteen miles to cover.”

  “That far?” Flavius said, aghast. It would take them the better part of the day.

  “Afraid so.”

  Davy checked to their rear. The Old Ones had not given chase, which surprised him. Maybe, he reasoned, the Indians were as anxious to quit the area as they were. “We’ll stay under the trees as much as possible,” he proposed.

  For nearly an hour the pair jogged steadily, until, on the bank of a creek that fed into the Mississippi, Davy halted to rest. Roosting on a handy log, he confirmed there were no openings in the foliage above.

  Flavius seized the opportunity to clean the mud from his pistols and load all four. He related his ordeal, finishing with, “If it hadn’t been for that maiden, I’d be a goner. Why do you suppose she went against the wishes of her own kith and kin?”

  A bestial shriek brought Davy off the log. Where the creek widened at its junction with the river, a familiar shadow passed over the sunlit surface.

  “Damn!” Flavius said. “It’s still hunting us! What do we do?”

  “We keep going. And never stray into the open.”

  Their trek proved daunting. Swampy stretches had to be crossed, deep creeks forded, tangled timber negotiated, always with an eye to the sky. Twice, the shrieks of the Thunderbird reminded them that it was still around.

  It was late afternoon when Davy stopped beside a thickly weeded knoll. At the rate they were going, they would not reach the canoes until well after nightfall. “Well rest a spell, then push on until we get there.”

  Flavius nodded and sank wearily against a tree. He had not slept since the night before last, and he did not know how much longer he could hold out. To make matters worse, he was hungry enough to eat a horse.

  A beetle crawled past his leg. Remembering that some Indians ate insects, Flavius picked it up, regarded its hard wings and wriggling legs, and set it down, scrunching his face in distaste. He’d have to be half starved before he would pop one of those into his mouth.

  Flavius sighed. Everything that could go wrong, had gone wrong. “Whose brainstorm was it, anyway, to take the river route?” he inquired innocently.

  Davy did not take the bait.

  “It sure enough wasn’t mine,” Flavius said. “If it was, I’d shoot myself in the leg so I’d suffer some for the grief I’ve caused my partner.”

  A retort was on the tip of Davy’s tongue, but it died at the sight of furtive shapes bounding toward them from the north. “The Old Ones!” he exclaimed, rising.

  “Who?” Flavius said, and saw the Indians himself. Snatching up his rifles, he headed across the creek. “They call themselves the Illini,” he mentioned.

  Davy wanted to kick himself for not being more alert. The warriors were only seventy or eighty yards away. He sighted at the foremost, but held his fire. Better to wait until they were closer, when the shot counted more.

  Again they fled. Hampered by the dense undergrowth and the weaving and wending of the Illini, Davy could not make an accurate count. Were there six? Or seven?

  Flavius was not up to a sustained chase. His legs were leaden, his muscles sluggish. He concentrated solely on keeping up with Davy.

  The land gradually rose. Rolling hills replaced the marsh, hills with slopes so steep that at the top of the first one, Flavius doubled over, wheezing like a bellows. “I can’t go on like this,” he gasped.

  The warriors were at the bottom, spreading out. Davy needed to slow them down. Taking a hasty bead, he fired. The ball thudded into a tree inches from its intended target. All the Illinis promptly went to ground.

  “Let’s go,” Davy urged.

  Puffing, Flavius followed. Going down was a lot easier than climbing had been, but another hill had to be traversed, and then another, and another. His lungs were aflame with pain, his legs wobbly, when he cried, “I’m plumb tuckered out!” and staggered to a stop.

  Below them was a gully that wound between the hills. Littered with pebbles, its steep sides afforded protection. “There!” Davy said. “We’ll make a stand.” Hurrying lower, he went over the rim in a rain of dirt and stones.

  Flavius took his time. A sprained or busted ankle would be the death of him. Coughing, he swiped at the dust Davy had raised, then turned and peered over the shoulder-high rim. “Too bad Hoodoo Tom ain’t here,” he commented. He had scant fondness for the old-timer, but they could sure use another rifle.

  Davy looked straight up. Trees grew close enough to the gully for overhanging limbs to partially shield them from the Thunderbird. It would have to be enough, because there was no time to seek a better spot.

  Humans in antelope headdresses appeared on the hill’s crest. Strung out in a line, they rushed lower, their tawny bodies visible now and then.

  Flavius fixed Matilda on a tall warrior in the center. The man was armed with a bow, an arrow already nocked. Like the rest, he was scanning the opposite slope. It had not dawned on the Indians yet that their quarry had turned at bay.

  Matilda spewed smoke and lead. Shot, the warrior clutched his ribs and fell headlong to the turf, rolling a dozen feet to come to rest against a pine.

  Davy fired at the tracker. The man spun around, took three halting paces, then dived for cover. “He’s only wounded,” Davy groused at himself. Seldom did he miss a shot. He would now, of all times.

  Yanking out the ramrod, Davy reloaded. First, he opened the powder horn and poured the proper amount of black powder down the muzzle. Next, he tamped a ball and patch into the barrel with the ramrod. Sliding the rod into its housing under the barrel, he propped Liz on the rim to steady his aim.

  There
was no one to shoot. None of the Old Ones had showed themselves.

  “Where are they?” Flavius whispered.

  “Working their way toward us,” was Davy’s guess. By creeping in close, the warriors could overwhelm them, engage in personal combat where their numbers gave the Illini a decided edge.

  “They have to be there, somewhere,” Flavius said anxiously. He looked for trembling leaves, rustling grass, bending boughs, anything. It was as if the earth had yawned wide and swallowed the war party whole.

  Davy began to crawl from the gully. “Cover me,” he said.

  “Where in tarnation are you going?”

  “To do the last thing they’d expect. I’m taking the fight to them.” Sound logic, Davy believed. It would throw the Old Ones into confusion and deflect their attention from Flavius. Reaching a maple, he balanced on the balls of his feet.

  Quiet reigned, quiet all the more unnatural because even the birds and other wildlife had stilled their tongues. Davy scoured the wooded slope. In this instance, the weapons the Illini were armed with would determine the tactics they adopted. Those with clubs would slink low to the ground so they could get close to the gully before charging, but those with bows needed to get higher in order to see into the gully to locate targets.

  In the fork of a tree twenty feet off crouched a warrior, a long feathered shaft notched to a sinew string. The string twanged at the very instant Davy spotted the bowman. He ducked, the shaft thumping into the trunk above him and quivering loudly.

  The Old One clawed at his quiver for another arrow. Davy centered on the man’s torso. At the boom of his shot, the Illini was punched backward. Folded in half, he dropped like a rock, breaking a limb on his way down.

  Another arrow flashed out of the vegetation, the barbed tip embedding itself a hand’s width from Davy’s cheek. Skipping to the right, he circled a thicket and hunkered behind a stump. Three of the Illini had been hit, but that was no guarantee they were out of the fight. Wounded warriors were often as fierce as wounded panthers.

  The rest would be more cautious. Try as he might, Davy could not locate a single one. He glanced toward the gully, but Flavius was no longer in sight. That bothered him. He reminded himself that Flavius was a grown man and could look out for his own hide. As silently as possible, he reloaded his rifle.

  In the gully, Flavius thought he saw movement and swung Matilda, only to see a sparrow dart from a bush. He grinned at his jumpiness, and swallowed.

  Where was Davy? Flavius wondered. He didn’t like it that Crockett had gone into the trees. They should have stayed together so he could cover his friend’s back, just like always. One day he wouldn’t be on hand, and Davy would regret it.

  The silence rattled his nerves. He’d much rather the Illini made a concerted rush. Being stalked by hostiles was worse than being attacked by a gator or a grizzly. A body never knew but when a knife might bury itself in his back, or a whizzing shaft would take out an eye.

  Suddenly a shadow passed over him. Instinctively, Flavius ducked and whirled, tilting Matilda skyward in abject dread that the piasa was diving at him. But it was the sparrow, not the monster, winging up the slope. He sagged, his heart fluttering.

  A scraping noise reminded Flavius that he should not take his eyes off the woods. Rising, he was startled witless to find himself staring a warrior in the face.

  The man held a club. Whooping, he pounced.

  Flavius had nowhere to go. Trapped in the narrow gully, he could only retreat a few feet. The Illini crashed into him as Flavius brought up his rifle. They sprawled against the side, the war club ramming into the dirt next to Flavius’s ear.

  Swinging the stock up and around, Flavius clipped his foe on the jaw, jarring him. But it was not enough to force the man backward and give him room to draw his knife. The war club’s second blow glanced off his shoulder.

  Letting go of Matilda, Flavius grappled with the Illini. He clamped a hand on the man’s wrist so the warrior could not swing the club. A knee caught him in the chest. A fist grazed his temple. A foot raked his shin. Still, he would not let go.

  They turned this way and that, the Illini struggling to wrest his weapon free, Flavius doing all in his power to foil him.

  A loose rock brought them both down. It was the warrior who slipped. Tottering, he grasped Flavius by the shoulder for support. But Flavius shrugged him off and the Illini’s feet swept out from under him.

  Flavius landed on top. Slamming his left knee into the man’s gut while simultaneously gripping the war club and twisting sharply upward, he seized control of it. The Illini clutched at a knife hilt.

  Hiking the club overhead, Flavius brought it down with all his strength onto the man’s head. A crunch, a gurgled whine, and the muscular form became as limp as a wet rag.

  Flavius cast the club down the gully, then rose unsteadily. Something buzzed by his right ear. An arrow overshot the gully by half a foot and sank into a tree trunk.

  Hunkering, Flavius retrieved Matilda. He crabbed to the rim and peeked out, seeking the archer. He saw no one. Not the bowman, not any other Illini, nor his best friend.

  “Davy, where the heck are you?” he whispered.

  ~*~

  In the woods, the object of Flavius’s anxiety was on his stomach, slinking toward a tree trunk half as wide as his cabin. He thought that he’d heard noises coming from the gully, but when he cocked his head, the only sound was the whispering breeze.

  At the tree, Davy rose into a crouch. Somewhere a man groaned feebly. Propping his rifle against the bole, he jumped, wrapped both hands around a limb, and levered himself into a fork. Bending, he clasped Liz.

  Davy carefully climbed higher, then moved around the trunk, stepping from limb to limb. He spotted the groaner. The bowman he had shot in the chest was flat on his back, a scarlet rivulet oozing from the wound to form a bright red puddle.

  Where are the others? Davy clutched a limb above him so he could shift to another in front. To the southeast an Old One brandishing a bow briefly materialized, but melted into the vegetation a heartbeat later.

  Davy stepped to another limb. Bushes rippled as the warrior slunk through them, but Davy could not see him clearly. Taking a bead on an opening the warrior would pass, he cocked the hammer and waited.

  A scraping above him caused Davy to raise his head. It was hard to say who was more flabbergasted, he or the warrior clambering around the trunk higher up. They locked eyes. Davy snapped Liz upward, or tried to; the barrel struck another branch. As he changed position, the Illini shrieked like the Thunderbird, and sprang.

  It was reckless. They were a good fifteen feet above the ground. A plunge from that height might not kill them, but suffering broken bones or internal bleeding was a distinct possibility.

  Davy slid closer to the trunk to evade the warrior’s out-flung arms. Hampered by his precarious perch, he could not move fast enough. The warrior plowed into his right shoulder, bowling him over. Upended, Davy hurtled toward the hard earth below.

  Exactly how hard the ground was, Davy found out. His left side absorbed the brunt. Pain flared in every sinew, along every bone. His consciousness spun. The world around him danced and dimmed. He was totally at the warrior’s mercy. At any second a knife thrust or blow would finish him off.

  Yet nothing happened.

  By torturous degrees, Davy’s awareness returned. The pain in his chest was terrible but bearable. Rolling onto his back, he tested his arms and legs. None appeared to be broken. His left side was numb, though, the sensation slowly coming back. Sitting up, he shook his head to dispel lingering cobwebs.

  The Illini was also rising, sluggishly, befuddled, but rising nonetheless.

  Davy groped for his rifle. Not finding it, he placed his hand on his tomahawk. Or where it should be, since the tomahawk was gone, too.

  Teeth clenched, eyebrows knit, the Old One pushed to his knees. From a sheath attached to a cord he produced a glittering knife. His flinty eyes narrowed as he shuffled forwa
rd, growling words in his own tongue.

  Davy shoved backward, wagging his arms to restore sensation and mobility. In his condition he was no match for the Illini, man to man. Drawing a pistol, he pointed it at the warrior’s head.

  The Old One froze.

  “That’s it,” Davy said calmly. “Now do us both a favor. Round up your friends and cut out for your village. I’m sick and tired of all this bloodshed.”

  The Illini glanced at the flintlock, then at Davy.

  “I just want to be left alone.”

  A sneer creased the warrior’s countenance.

  “Please,” Davy said.

  Like a cannonball exploding from a cannon, the man shot toward him. Davy’s finger tightened, the crack of the smoothbore amplified by the trees.

  Without delay, Davy located his rifle and the tomahawk and sprinted toward the gully. Enough was enough.

  ~*~

  Flavius rotated when the undergrowth crackled. Assuming it to be a warrior, he was ready to shoot. He actually squeezed the trigger when a figure emerged—and gave silent thanks that he had neglected to pull back the hammer. “Lord Almighty!” he exclaimed. “Are you trying to get yourself shot?”

  “We’re leaving,” Davy announced, sliding over the rim.

  “What about the Illini? Won’t they try to stop us?”

  Davy contemplated the forest. Only one or two Old Ones were left unhurt. Surely, he thought, they were more interested in aiding their fellows than in exacting revenge. “Something tells me they won’t.” He scrambled up the other side.

  “Wait for me!” Watching their backs, Flavius followed, tensed for a shower of arrows. It was the height of folly, in his view, to venture into the open. They would end up like porcupines.

  His fears were unfounded. They were soon in heavy cover, without a solitary shaft having whizzed down. Shaking his head in amazement, Flavius trudged in his friend’s wake. So far, so good. But they had a long way to go, and a lot could happen.

  Chapter Ten

  Davy Crockett had never been so glad to see the sun go down. At last he could stop scanning the sky for the Thunderbird. Rubbing a kink in the back of his neck, he tramped to the river to take his first drink since morning.