Davy Crockett 8 Read online

  “Lead the way.” Flavius shoved him, then followed. It didn’t help any that deep down inside, he agreed.

  Eight

  The best hunters were always the best trackers. That was what the hill folk of Tennessee believed, and rightly so.

  A backwoodsman worthy of the name must be expert at the craft. And craft it was. It took diligent effort, over a span of years, to become proficient.

  A man must memorize all the different kinds of tracks and be able to tell one creature’s from another’s. A wolf’s from a coyote’s. A robin’s from a jay’s. A salamander’s from a lizard’s.

  A truly competent tracker could determine an animal’s size and weight, and thus the approximate age. Sometimes, in conjunction with other factors, even the sex. A good tracker could gauge the creature’s weight. Would know whether it had been running or walking or hopping. And so much more.

  In short, a skilled tracker could read any creature like a proverbial book just from a few prints.

  Davy Crockett was rated one of the best by his kinsmen and friends, and he had earned their esteem honestly. All those years he had spent in the woods as a youngster had paid off. All those hours devoted to learning all he could about all kinds of tracks. To understanding how everything that might effect a print did.

  The things he had done to hone his skill! Like those times he’d sat out in the rain to see how the rainfall eroded sign. Or the time when he’d camped next to bear prints for three days to note typical changes. Wind, rain, snow, frost, he knew what all of them did. He had even dug select tracks out of soft soil and taken them home just so he could observe them over long periods.

  When anyone needed a bear tracked down, they called on Davy. When someone was being harassed by a predator, they paid the Crockett cabin a visit. When the army needed reliable scouts during the Creek War, one of the men they relied on most was Davy Crockett.

  He was never more grateful for his ability than now. It had taken almost half the previous morning, wasting precious hours, but he had finally found the slavers’ trail and pursued them for the rest of the day.

  Night caught him in the open, his quest unfulfilled. Heeding Bowie’s advice, he’d made a small fire on a knoll, building a lean-to to screen it from potentially unfriendly eyes. He’d attempted to sleep, but it was futile. Tossing and turning, he could think of nothing but catching up to Flavius.

  The next morning brought surprise after surprise. He found where his friend had spent the night in a tree. At its base were the deeply imbedded manlike footprints of a creature with only three toes. There were other bizarre tracks, those of a gigantic beast impossible to identify. And close by were the prints of nine Indians.

  But what Indians! The warriors were barefoot! In the swamp! The soles of their feet were heavily callused, their toes bigger than average. Whoever they were, they appeared to be after the slavers.

  Davy saw where Flavius had climbed down and continued on. It disturbed him immensely. The safe thing to do was to turn around, to get out of there.

  The tracks told him his friend had later met up with one of the river rats. Arlo Kastner, judging by the excessively worn left heel. Davy noted where the pair had ducked into a thicket, and figured out the reason.

  Davy put two and two together. Arlo had been running, fleeing, when he stumbled on Flavius. Apparently, the Indians had attacked the slavers, and only Kastner had gotten away.

  It was not terribly difficult to guess why Flavius had gone on. The slaves. His friend wanted to save the blacks. A worthy ambition, but it might get Flavius killed.

  Davy jogged faster, holding to a dogtrot that ate up the miles. He paralleled their tracks, practically reading his friend’s state of mind at each stage.

  Flavius and Arlo had gone slowly at first, taking short, measured steps, scared but game. Or at least Flavius was. Arlo had repeatedly dug in his heels, evidently trying to persuade Flavius to turn back before it was too late. Flavius had refused.

  They had slowed even more when they neared the camp. Davy saw it himself, off through the trees in a large clearing.

  Buzzards were clustered in the center. Their presence assured Davy no Indians were in the area. He strode boldly on out, then stopped cold, his gut seething. To the left lay a human leg. A black leg, a man’s, a shackle still on the ankle. Frayed strips of flesh hinted it had been forcibly ripped from the man’s body. The body itself was missing. Pools of blood marked two spots where someone had fallen. Smaller scarlet puddles were scattered at random.

  Davy walked toward the buzzards, who eyed him warily. “Shoo!” he said, waving his arms. “Scat!” They did, rising into the sky on ponderous wings and circling, waiting for him to leave.

  The remains they had been feasting on were those of a white man. It had to be Sedge, yet there was not enough of him left to prove it. Shredded buckskin hung in tatters on exposed rib bones. One of the hands was missing, while the fingers on the other had been pecked clean of flesh down to the bone. The same with the face. The legs were fairly intact, although the vultures had eaten away at the inner thighs.

  Tracks led off to the north, deeper into the swamp.

  Flavius and the river rat had followed. Davy’s best guess was that they had a two-hour lead, give or take thirty minutes. The day was still young, so catching up to them before sunset should not pose a problem. Producing his tomahawk, he blazed a tree at the camp’s edge. For Bowie’s sake.

  Davy took pemmican from his bag and munched as he ran. He’d not eaten a decent meal in days, and he only drank when he was extremely thirsty. As a result, he was half-starved, tired, and sore. But he was not about to give up until Flavius was safe—or those who harmed him had received their just deserts.

  Flavius and Arlo were moving faster. Probably because the barefoot Indians were covering ground at twice the speed most men could.

  Bogs became more common, and had to be carefully skirted. Twice Davy came on brackish pools that gave off a sulfurous stench. The vegetation was thicker, virtually impassable in certain areas. Gloom pervaded the swamp like a shroud.

  Every hundred yards, Davy blazed another tree. Or, when there were no trees, he slashed at the brush, creating crude arrows that pointed in the right direction.

  Davy was making excellent time when he noticed gray clouds to the west. Soon the breeze grew gusty and laden with the scent of moisture. Davy hurried, afraid the storm would strike and obliterate the trail. He was in such a hurry that he made a grave mistake. He neglected to keep his eyes on the terrain ahead.

  Beyond some pools grew a stand of trees. Davy was so intent on the tracks that he did not look up as he entered. So it was that he sensed he was no longer alone before he saw anyone. Halting, he dropped into a crouch, but he was too late.

  There were two of them. Gaunt, hairy specimens, lurking in shadows. Motionless figures who stared at him from under beetling brows with eyes as dull as blank slate. Whether they were stragglers from the war party was irrelevant.

  Trying to make the best of a bad blunder, Davy stood up and plastered a smile on his face. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said. “I don’t mean you any harm.” He leaned Liz against his side and resorted to the sign talk taught him by the Sioux, holding his hands out so the pair could see his fingers.

  They watched, glassy-eyed. Dim-witted brutes, Davy reasoned. Incapable of learning much of anything, let alone complicated sign language. He tried again, saying aloud, “I’m hunting for a friend of mine. I don’t want trouble.”

  The warriors looked at one another. Davy entertained the hope that maybe, just maybe, they gleaned he was friendly and would help. Reality dashed his hope to smithereens when both raised large war clubs, howled like wolves on a hot scent, and sprang.

  Davy snatched Liz and backed up. He did not want to shoot if he could help it. The blast might be heard by the war party. He pointed Liz at the man on the right, thinking the threat would be enough to deter them. He should have known better. They separated, on
e coming at him from the right, one from the left. The former was inches from Liz’s muzzle when Davy stroked the trigger.

  One down. But the other was on Davy in a twinkling. The club smashed against Liz and sent her sailing. Davy instantly dropped his hands to his flintlocks, but the warrior let go of the war club and flung both arms wide, enfolding Davy in a bear hug.

  Throwing himself backward, the Tennessean strained but could not break free. They collided with a tree, careened off, and smacked against another.

  The man’s brutish features were contorted in bestial fury. He drove a knee up and in, and would have connected with Davy’s groin had Davy not twisted, causing them to totter. They bounced off yet another trunk, then staggered out of the stand toward a pool. Davy heaved and bucked and pushed, but it was like attempting to pry steel bars apart.

  The warrior’s leg and his locked, and they fell.

  Davy landed on the bottom in high grass. The Indian applied more pressure, his face red from his exertion. Pain lanced Davy’s arms, and he could feel his rib cage begin to buckle. The hairy warrior was tremendously strong, the strongest man Davy had ever gone up against. He wrenched to the left, his shoulders rippling. It had no effect. The hairy brute was slowly but surely squeezing the life from him.

  Then the warrior did something even more horrifying. He grinned, exposing his front teeth. They had been filed to sharp points!

  Davy could not comprehend why anyone would want to mutilate their teeth so horribly. As if in answer, the man’s head dipped and those pointy teeth sank into his shoulder, biting through the buckskin and into his flesh. Blood spurted.

  The pain was as nothing compared to the shock. Davy felt the man’s teeth work back and forth. The brute was gnawing on him!

  Revulsion spurred Davy into pumping up off the ground, using his hips and feet. He rolled to the left, but did not succeed in dislodging his attacker. The man’s teeth grated deeper, and it was all Davy could do not to scream.

  Taking a cue from the warrior, Davy rammed his own knee up. A gurgling growl was proof he had scored where it hurt the most. He did it again, and again. After the fourth blow, the man’s grip weakened just enough for Davy to break loose.

  Davy immediately pushed upright. His hairy antagonist was much slower, giving Davy time to palm his tomahawk. He braced his legs, prepared for whatever the man would try next. Or so he thought.

  Roaring like a grizzly, the Indian lowered his head and charged. He slammed into the Tennessean’s stomach, his momentum bearing them both backward—into the pool.

  Water closed around Davy as he swung. The tomahawk landed, but not solidly. He was forced under, and felt the water pour into his nostrils and ears. He swung a second time, but it was deflected. Iron fingers closed on his neck. Thick thumbs gouged into his windpipe. The Indian sought to drown or strangle him, whichever came first.

  Davy could see the man’s feral features, just above the surface. He sliced the tomahawk in a half circle, and saw the edge sink in, behind the ear. Scarlet sprayed everywhere. The warrior lurched back, clutching at his head.

  Propelling himself erect, Davy greedily gulped fresh breaths. The Indian turned and headed for land, for the war club. Davy lurched after him, but the man reached the weapon and spun. They both stood still, taking each other’s measure.

  The hairy brute paid no regard to the gash or the blood. Circling, he cocked his powerful arm.

  Davy stepped in the opposite direction, staying just out of reach. He sought to trick his foe into lunging, into over-extending himself. But the warrior was more clever than Davy gave him credit for; he didn’t take the bait.

  The Tennessean moved toward shore, only to be thwarted when the Indian sidestepped to bar his path. Davy went further, but the man did the same. Strangely enough, the warrior seemed intent on keeping him in the pool.

  Davy was baffled. What could his enemy hope to accomplish? A little water never hurt anybody. True, a voice in his skull agreed, but what was in the water could. He whirled. Several yards out and closing fast was an alligator. Rather puny as gators went, it measured maybe six feet from snout to tail. But there was nothing puny about its glistening teeth. It surged in close, mouth agape.

  Mentally cursing himself for not having enough brains to grease a skillet, Davy leaped toward dry ground. But the warrior was waiting. Davy was caught between a rock and a hard place. Or in this case, between razor-rimmed jaws and a heavy war club.

  “Damn.”

  There was once chance, slim as it might be. Davy took another bound toward shore anyway, the gator at his very heels. Predictably, the warrior came to meet him. At the last instant, Davy darted to the right.

  Now the reptilian beast and the man-brute were face-to-face. The alligator attacked, seeking to bite the Indian’s leg. An agile spring carried the man to safety. Then, turning, the warrior swept the war club down on top of the gator’s head.

  Davy scurried out of the pool. He thought the warrior had temporarily forgotten about him, but the man drove at him in a savage whirlwind. Davy warded off several swings, retreating to the right as he did.

  Inexplicably, the Indian stopped and grinned.

  Now what? Davy wondered. And received his answer when a clammy sensation spread up over his moccasins. How could that be when he was a good jive feet from the water* s edge? He risked a glance down, and his heart skipped a beat.

  It wasn’t water.

  It was quicksand.

  ~*~

  “I’m not takin’ another step.”

  Flavius Harris halted and turned. The river rat had folded his arms and planted his legs. “Is that so?” Flavius said.

  “Yep, it is,” Arlo Kastner declared. “Go ahead. Shoot me if you want. But I don’t reckon you will. Not when those stinkin’ ghouls are so close.”

  Flavius was sorely tempted. All Arlo did was gripe, gripe, gripe. Griped worse than Matilda, and that took some doing. But the cutthroat had a point. They had almost caught up with the slaves and their inhuman captors. A shot was bound to give them away.

  “So let’s part company with no hard feelin’s, eh?” Arlo proposed. “Give me a pistol and your knife and I’ll be on my way.”

  “No.”

  The river rat gestured angrily. “I’ve put up with as much of your nonsense as I aim to. If you have a hankerin’ to get yourself killed, go right ahead. I sure as hell won’t stop you. All I want is a chance to protect myself.”

  “Forget it.”

  Mad as a blind hornet, Arlo took a step and shook a fist under the Tennessean’s nose. “Listen to me, bumpkin. We’ve been plumb lucky so far. But no one’s luck holds forever. And in case you ain’t noticed, all the signs points to us being mighty near a village. This whole area is probably crawlin’ with hairy demons.”

  Flavius had noticed. But it did not deter him from his purpose. He would save the blacks or he would die trying. As Davy was so fond of saying, it was root hog or die.

  “Come on,” Arlo said. “Let me have a pistol. Just one. I’ll be out of your hair and you can go get eaten.” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t rightly see what you’re tryin’ to prove anyway. Those darkies don’t mean anything to you or me. So why go to all this bother? Why get yourself killed on their miserable account?”

  “You’d never understand.”

  “Why? Are you sayin’ you’re smarter than me? Or are you one of those Bible-bangers? You doing this because it’s the Christian thing to do?”

  How could Flavius explain? His motive was too deeply personal. He owed it to the blacks, yes, but he also owed it to himself. He had something to prove, something important. “Right is right,” he simply answered.

  “What in hell does that mean?” Arlo snickered. “Stupid is stupid too. Which is why I ain’t going any further. Hand over a gun.”

  Flavius had tried to reason. But he wasn’t a talker, like Davy. He didn’t have a flair for flowery words or a talent for persuading others. And when all else failed, the best approach to
a problem was always the direct approach. Giving no inkling of his intent, he started to turn away.

  “Hold on,” Arlo said, and reached for him.

  Flavius rammed Matilda’s muzzle into the river rat’s abdomen. Hard. Kastner folded like a fan, onto his knees, and retched. Flavius waited for the spasm to subside, then said quietly, “You’ll do as I say, not the other way around. What you want to do counts for a hill of beans, far as I’m concerned. And whether the Indians kill you or I do, it’s all the same to me.”

  Arlo looked up, ablaze with raw hatred. “If it’s the last thing I ever do—!” he wheezed, stopping when Flavius raised the rifle.

  “And another thing,” Flavius said. “No more threats. My friend told me once that it’s what we do, not what we say we’ll do, that counts.”

  “Shoot me, then. ’Cause this is as far as I go.”

  “Think again.” Flavius was not going to bandy words. They had no more time to squander. He kicked the river rat in the side, and when Kastner was rolling in agony, he kicked him again. As he lifted his foot to stomp on him, the ruffian frantically thrust an open palm at him and bleated like a goat.

  “Enough! Damn you! Enough!”

  “On your feet.”

  If a glare could kill, Flavius would have been shriveled by the one Arlo bestowed on him. Putting on a show of being in great anguish, the cutthroat rose, his arms crisscrossed over his midsection. “I just hope they eat you first. Raw. I want to see the look on your face when they take their first bite.” Flavius motioned. “After you.”

  Gnarled trees cloaked in vines reared above them. Undergrowth choked with leaves and limbs limited how far they could see in any given direction to a dozen feet at most. The ground was soft, even by the swamp’s standards, dirt clinging to their feet at every step.

  Flavius felt uneasy. It was a place fit for neither man nor beast, and the animals apparently agreed, because he had not heard a bird chirp or squirrel chitter or any other creature for quite some time. Normally it meant a predator was abroad, but Flavius had not seen a trace of one. Or much else. Animal tracks had been abundant; now they were few and far between. It was almost as if the wildlife had fled. Or been wiped out.