Davey Crockett 6 Page 11

  Two Claws was not amused. “You think to save yourself? You are mistaken. Whites can never be our friends. The grass will run red with your blood, or it will run red with ours. There is no other way.”

  Flavius had about had his fill of the warrior’s smug arrogance. “As my grandma used to say, a few bad apples don’t spoil the whole bunch. Yes, some white men are worthless. So are some Injuns.” He stared pointedly at Two Claws. “But a lot of whites are damned decent. My pard, Davy, for instance. A finer person never drew breath. And he thinks like Otter Belt does, that the white man and the red man can live together in peace.”

  “Another fool. Another dreamer.”

  “Who are you to judge? I’ll bet you’ve never given it a chance.”

  “Tell me, fat one. If a man came into your lodge and took your blanket, would you let him keep it? If he came back and demanded food, would you smile and let him have all he wanted? If he shot your dog, would you do nothing? If he pushed you out of your lodge and moved in himself, would you leave?” Two Claws did not wait for a reply. “No, you would not. Neither will we.”

  Flavius opened his mouth to debate the point but did not. As much as he despised Two Claws, the Comanche was right. Most of the tribes on hand to greet the Pilgrims when they landed at Plymouth Rock, and those who later welcomed the spreading white tide with open arms, had been either erased from the face of the earth or uprooted and pushed steadily westward.

  An exchange between Two Claws and the three husky warriors resulted in Flavius’s being taken to the crone’s lodge. The old woman and the young one were making a parfleche. They barely gave him a glance.

  Seated on a blanket, Flavius pondered. His fate now rested in the hands of a couple of dozen men who had every reason to hate him for the color of his skin alone. He was not optimistic.

  Someone once mentioned to him that when it came time for a man to meet his Maker, it was best to put one’s house in order. Not that Flavius had much to settle. The farm automatically went to Matilda, along with their meager savings. Two hundred and forty dollars. All they had to show for years of scrimping and saving.

  As for whether Flavius would be admitted past those pearly gates on high, or whether he was destined for hotter climes, he could not venture a guess. He’d never been the most religious of souls, but neither had he been the most irreligious. Like most folks, he’d tended to walk the straight and narrow one misstep at a time.

  Funny, isn't it, how a person really doesn't give much thought to the Hereafter until they're poised at the brink? Flavius reflected. People took it for granted from one day to the next that they would be alive to welcome the next dawn. They shouldn’t. Death was like a thief in the night, like a shadow constantly at one’s shoulder, like a creeping cold frost. It struck without warning, without mercy, without favorites. Rich or poor, kind or cruel, white or red, tall or short, it made no difference.

  Flavius was getting a headache. Deep thinking was a habit he had always shied away from.

  Someone slapped the flap. The old woman called out, and in walked the three warriors. Without comment they bustled Flavius to the big lodge. Inside, it was quiet as a tomb. Conversation had ceased. The council members sat straight and stiff. Few would meet his gaze.

  Flavius shivered, but not from any chill. He was prodded to the center again, with warriors on either side and another behind. In case he bolted, he guessed. Otter Tail nodded at him.

  “We have decided,” Two Claws announced, getting directly to the point.

  His fear grew, but Flavius would not let it show. “How will it be?”

  “You will live.”

  Flavius was unsure whether his ears were working correctly. “I will?” Hope took root, billowing like a sheet in a gale wind.

  “If you tell us how many were with you. And where we can find them.”

  The crashing noise Flavius swore he heard was his death knell. “As to how many there were, that’s my business. Where they went after we parted company, I can’t say. Likely to St. Louis, where I should be right now. In a tavern, guzzling ale and eating roast pork.” He could practically feel the greasy, hot haunch in his hands, could practically taste the salty, fatty meat.

  “I do not believe you,” Two Claws declared.

  “Who are you kidding? You wouldn’t believe anything your own mother said if she had a smidgen of white blood in her veins.” Flavius squared his shoulders. “Do with me as you will, you heathen bastard.”

  Two Claws rose onto a knee, his knife partially drawn. “I would cut out your tongue. But I want to hear you scream, hear you beg me to spare you.”

  The council members rose. Flavius was seized. In a body, the warriors filed outdoors and across the open space to a point midway between the lodges. A post had been erected. Some of the men disappeared, only to show up shortly bearing firewood and buffalo droppings. The material was piled high around the pole—waist high, to be exact.

  Word spread. From every lodge they came, somber men, women, and children, to form a gigantic ring.

  “I’m to be burned at the stake,” Flavius said to himself, unwilling to accept that it was happening. Panic gushed through him and he looked wildly, desperately about, as would any condemned man, for salvation that was not there. He dug in his heels when he was dragged toward the post, but they overpowered him. Slammed against it, he had to submit to having his ankles and wrists bound.

  Two Claws, Otter Belt, and other leaders were in front of him. “I would cut you up, piece by piece,” said Two Claws. “They want this way.”

  Flavius saw the crone and the young woman. Was he deluding himself, or did regret etch the old woman’s features? He tested the rope, which bit into his skin. It would require the might of a Samson to break free. “Lord Almighty, have mercy,” he breathed.

  Through the throng hastened a warrior holding a blazing torch. Striding to the pile, he paused and looked at the tribal elders. Wind fanned the flames, their hiss eerily loud.

  The pale glow lent the assembled Comanches a ghostly hue. To Flavius they appeared not quite human.

  Two Claws motioned, and the warrior lowered the torch.

  Nine

  The Texians did not seem to mind the slow progress they were making. At least Farley, Taylor, and Ormbach never complained, but Kerr grumbled constantly. A surly character with little sense of humor, Lucius Kerr was one of those people who thrived on hate. He loathed Indians, and he never let an opportunity to mention how he felt slip by.

  “Comanches are the worst of the lot,” the grungy Texian was saying as their party moved toward a series of low hills. “They’ll slit your throat as soon as look at you. And they’re real partial to white women, if’n you take my drift.”

  “Did they kidnap someone close to you?” Davy Crockett asked. It would explain the man’s hatred, if not justify it.

  “Naw,” Kerr said, and idly scratched his armpit. “I tagged along just for the chance to kill a few of the sons of bitches.” Exposing his yellow teeth, he snatched his butcher knife out and slashed it at the air. “I love to chop the vermin into little pieces. Once, down Brazos way, I got to torture a red buck for three days. Put out his eyes, peeled his skin in strips, hacked off his fingers, everything, and not once did that mangy Injun let out a peep. Tough one, he was.”

  “What had he done to deserve it?”

  “Done?” Kerr laughed without mirth. “Hell, mister. He was a Comanche. That was enough.” Davy’s disgust must have shown, because Kerr glared and added, “I wouldn’t expect someone from Tennessee to understand. You don’t know how it is in Texas. What we’ve had to endure.”

  “Tennessee’s had its share of Indian troubles,” Davy mentioned. “Ever heard of the Creeks?”

  “Can’t say as I have, but they don’t hold a candle to the Comanches,” Kerr avowed. “I’d be willin’ to wager that the Comanches slaughter more white folks in one year than your Creeks ever have. They’re mean, clever, bloodthirsty. Worthy enemies.”

&n
bsp; “You almost sound proud of them.”

  Kerr thought about that a moment. “Maybe I am. As much as I dislike ’em, I have to admit they don’t take any guff off anybody. And no one’s ever accused them of being puny, like the Pimas and Maricopas and whatnot.” He scratched again. “Still, scum is scum. Know what I mean?”

  Nodding, Davy goaded the bay he was on forward, to catch up with Farley. He could take only so much of Kerr’s company before the man grated on him like sandpaper on metal. The slim arms around his waist moved, and Becky’s head poked past his left elbow.

  “Mr. Kerr is a lot like my grandfather was,” she whispered.

  For one so young, she’s very smart, Davy mused. Both men shared certain qualities: They were vicious, self-centered, and so full of spite it seeped out their ears. He patted her arm. “Don’t let him spook you. Men like Kerr are so soured on life, they never get the acid out of their systems.”

  Davy and the girl were not the only ones riding double. Heather was with Farley, Taylor with Ormbach. They switched a lot, as the whim struck them. Kerr usually rode alone; no one particularly cared to ride double with him.

  Heather heard them and shifted. “How are you holding up, sweetheart?” she asked her daughter.

  “I’m fine,” Becky said, in that tone children use when their parents treat them like children. “I’m just like I was before we left St. Louis.”

  They were all fully recovered, thanks to the Texians. The four never went thirsty. They knew where every stream, spring, and river was located. Taylor, especially, was as familiar with the land and the wildlife as Davy was with the back of his own hand. Years back, Taylor had been a buffalo hunter and got to know the country well.

  Ormbach was a farmer, plain and simple. As strong as an ox, he was not the most quick-witted of the group, but he was as dependable as the day was long. He did not share Kerr’s fanatical hatred. Ormbach was along because his good friend Taylor had come.

  As for Farley, he had obtained a land grant from the Mexican government and was looking to establish a thriving ranch. From what Davy could gather from hints dropped by the others, Farley had a reputation for being honest and true, and incredibly fast with those fancy pistols of his. He also had a reputation for being highly popular with the ladies of San Antonio, so much so, he was considered a bit of a rake.

  Heather Dugan had certainly fallen under his spell. Or maybe it was the other way around. They spent most of their time together. Heather preferred to ride with him over anyone else. At night they sat together, whispering and laughing and brushing against each other like a couple of love struck youngsters.

  Davy was glad for Heather. After the hell she had been through, she deserved some happiness. Taylor and Ormbach made no comments about the situation, but they grinned a lot behind Farley’s back. It did not seem to sit well with Kerr, though. On several occasions Davy caught him glaring at the couple when they were not aware. What it portended, Davy could not guess.

  Now Farley pointed at the hills and said, “Once we reach those, we have to keep our eyes skinned. Two Claws favors this region at this time of year. Word has it that last summer he camped on the other side for three or four months.” Sadness clouded his handsome face. “I just pray Marcy and Beth are still with them.”

  Marcy was Farley’s sister, Beth his cousin. As Davy understood the story, Marcy had been visiting Beth when the Comanches struck. The farm owned by Beth’s father was one of the farthest from the settlements, so even though neighbors heard shots and screams and rushed to help, it was all over by the time aid got there. Beth’s father had been severely wounded, left a cripple, his wife and oldest son slain. Marcy and Beth had been taken captive. The strain proved too much for Farley’s father, whose heart later gave out. Farley’s mother was anxiously waiting in town for word of the rescue attempt.

  “And I pray they’ll go back with us.”

  Heather straightened. “What an odd remark. Why in the world wouldn’t they?”

  “It’s been a year,” Farley said.

  “How old was your sister when she was taken?” Davy asked.

  “Sixteen. Childbearing age.”

  Davy dropped the subject. He knew what the Texian was hinting at, but evidently Heather did not.

  “Are you saying that if she’s had a baby, she’ll want to stay with the Comanches?”

  “It happens all the time,” Farley said. “So far those red devils have stolen over fifty women, and only two have ever been recovered. Most would rather stay with their children than come back to the life they knew.”

  “Even if they can bring the children with them?”

  Farley grew sadder. “That’s just it. They can’t. The Comanches aren’t idiots. Whenever a parley is set up to swap for a captive, they won’t let the mothers take the kids.”

  “Well, then, steal the mothers and the kids.”

  “Which is exactly what we aim to do,” Farley declared. “No parley. No truce. No trade. We go in, we get them, we bring them out. And we kill anyone who stands in our way.”

  Four against an entire village? Davy did not think much of the odds, although he admired the Texians’ pluck. Unfortunately, it put the Dugans in great danger. “Why not send Taylor or Ormbach back with Heather and Becky?” he suggested.

  “What?” the blonde said.

  Farley nodded. “I’ve been thinking of doing just that. We’ll talk it over once we make camp. The last thing I want is for anything to happen to them.”

  “Hold on,” Heather protested. “I should have some say in the matter. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Think of your daughter,” Farley said.

  “I am. We’d be at just as much risk. This is Comanche territory, and they can show up anywhere at any time. I’m staying with you, come what may.”

  Becky squeezed Davy and stated, “The same with me. Mr. Crockett hasn’t let us come to any harm yet.”

  Davy caught Farley’s eye, and they both frowned. Heather was making a mistake that might cost her life and that of her child. But short of trussing her up and throwing her over a horse, what could they do?

  The hills were barren, rent by ravines and gulches. A tiny spring provided water. As they unsaddled and set up camp beside it, Taylor mentioned, “We’re fairly safe here. The Comanches won’t set foot within half a mile. To them, these hills are bad medicine. Something to do with a chief who died under mysterious circumstances ages ago.”

  “Mysterious?” Davy said.

  Taylor tugged his saddle off. “A ’breed told me the tale. It seems that a band was out hunting buffalo and stopped for the night at this spring. Around midnight, the chief got up and walked off. To relieve himself, probably. Anyway, he had been gone only a few seconds when the others heard him cry out, something like, ‘Who’s there?’ Then they heard him scream, the most god-awful scream anyone ever heard. It scared them stiff, and Comanches don’t scare easily. They grabbed their weapons and ran to find out what had happened.” Pausing, Taylor glanced at Becky.

  “You can tell us,” she said sweetly. “I don’t believe in ghosts anymore.”

  “This was no ghost, missy,” Taylor said. “They found that chief torn apart. Arms, legs, even his head was separated from his body. And they found huge bloody prints, tracks three times the size of a man’s.”

  Heather had become interested. “Was it a grizzly or a cat?”

  “Neither. Whatever it was, it walked on two legs. And each foot had only three toes.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Taylor shrugged. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But the old-timers and the Indians claim that they’ve seen apes in these parts. Hairy, smelly varmints. Three-toed skunk apes, some call them.”

  “I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life,” Heather said.

  Davy was reminded of stories he’d heard while on the campaign against the Creeks. Down in Florida—so the accounts went—deep, deep in the swamps, lived savage red apes that would tear a ma
n limb from limb without provocation. One scout swore on the Bible that a trapper he’d known had gone off into the swampland and never emerged. Friends canoed in to look for him and located his camp, plus what little was left of the man, mainly tattered clothes and gnawed bones. They also found tufts of red hair. Davy had dismissed the account as another liquor-induced tall tale. Maybe he was wrong.

  Becky surveyed the shadowed nook in which they were going to bed down. “Have any of you seen one of these apes?”

  “No,” Taylor said. “They’re mighty rare, if they’re around at all.”

  Kerr grunted. “Who cares if they are? A shot between the eyes will fetch ’em to eternity just like it will everything else.” He swelled his chest and hefted his rifle. “I ain’t afeared of any critter, two-legged or otherwise.”

  Taylor had taken a spyglass from his saddlebags. “Crockett, I’d like some company,” he announced. “We’ll have us a look-see at what’s on the other side of these hills.”

  A game trail wound up to the summit of the last one. Calling it a summit was a stretch; the crown reared a lofty thirty feet above the plain. But even from that low height they were granted a magnificent vista. Mile after mile of gently waving grass broken by knolls and hillocks spread to the far horizon.

  Perhaps two miles off lay a waterway rimmed by vegetation. Cottonwoods dotted its course.

  Taylor opened the spyglass and pressed it to his right eye. “One of the reasons I brought you up here,” he said as he swung the glass back and forth, “was to warn you about Kerr. If any warning is needed.” He pursed his lips. “You impress me as being highly intelligent. Need I go on?”

  “A few particulars would be nice. I’m not nearly as smart as I pretend to be.”

  The Texian chuckled. “Very well.” He roved the glass along the stream. “Kerr is not to be trusted. He has a nasty temper, and he likes to have his own way.”