Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4) Page 11

  “Is this smart?” Flavius asked. Being in the open made him nervous. So what if night had fallen? Maybe the piasa had eyes like an owl. He commented as much.

  “I doubt it,” Davy said, and cupped another handful to his mouth. “If the thing can see in the dark, the Illini wouldn’t have staked you out next to that bonfire.”

  Flavius had told Davy all about his ordeal. “Maybe,” he said, only half convinced. “And maybe they didn’t build the fire just so the bird could see me. Maybe it was a signal for the piasa to come eat supper.”

  A brisk wind from the northwest fanned the Mississippi as Davy straightened. Stars had blossomed in a cloudless sky. There was no moon, but the starlight was sufficient. “Anything is possible,” he conceded. “But I say we stick to open ground to make better time. As it is, we won’t reach the campsite until close to midnight.”

  “You know best,” Flavius said with little conviction. He trusted the Irishman completely, but there were instances when that trust was stretched to the breaking point.

  Davy cradled Liz and set off. He did not blame Flavius for being upset. His friend had suffered greatly on their gallivant—a journey Flavius undertook at his insistence. If he had not talked Flavius into tagging along, Flavius would be safe at home, seated in a rocking chair on the porch of his cabin, sipping from a jug.

  Matilda had objected, as she always did. Unlike Davy’s wife, who understood his restless craving to roam, Matilda believed that a husband should never leave his wife’s side. Davy could still recollect her last words.

  “It ain’t right for the menfolks to go off whenever they feel like it and leave us women to fend for ourselves! While you’re away having a grand time, we’re taking care of the house and tending the kids and tilling the fields and doing all the work you men should be doing.” She had crooked a finger at him. “If you ask me, David Crockett, these gallivants of yours are just an excuse to get out of doing your husbandly duty. Thank your lucky stars that Liz is your wife. If you were my man, I wouldn’t let you get away with these shenanigans.”

  “As for you,” Matilda said to Flavius, “the only reason I let you go is because it’s best if this Irish vagabond doesn’t go alone. Liz is a dear friend of mine, and she’d be brokenhearted if anything happened to him, perish forbid.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Flavius had dutifully said. And away they rode.

  Now, looking back, Davy regretted dragging Flavius along. The blame would fall on his shoulders should his friend be harmed. It was a burden he would rather not bear.

  The wilderness was alive with sounds. Painters snarled and screamed. Bears growled and grunted. Wolves howled. Coyotes yipped. Owls voiced their eternal query. Occasionally, birds squawked.

  Along the river frogs croaked in constant chorus, the deep throb of bullfrogs blended with the short throaty croaks of leopard frogs and the high chirps of tree frogs. Insects twittered and buzzed.

  Often, from out on the water, came loud splashing. Some of the noises were undoubtedly fish. But the others? Once, Davy heard a sinuous swishing. Another time, a massive black shape swam northward, causing a wake that lapped small waves on the shore.

  Flavius hated it. He couldn’t shake the nagging dread that there might be other monsters out there besides the piasa, creatures no white man had ever set eyes on, horrid, vile beasts that would give a grown man nightmares.

  Landmarks were few and far between. Most of the prominent ones Davy had memorized—a hill here, a lightning-charred tree there, elsewhere a gravel bar—were not visible at night. To mark their progress he kept track of the bends they passed and compared them to his recollection of the river’s general course.

  Judging by the position of the Big Dipper, it was close to one in the morning when Davy halted. Pointing at a finger of land that jutted into the river, he said softly, “I think that’s where we camped.”

  “No sign of Hoodoo Tom,” Flavius said. His main concern was their canoe. Without it, they were stranded.

  “Keep your eyes skinned,” Davy advised. Cat footing into the trees, he prowled toward the spot where the campfire and their personal effects had been. The burnt remains of their fire stood out like a sore thumb, but of their packs and parfleches, there was no trace.

  “Damn,” Flavius whispered. “Someone must have come along and swiped our stuff. Now what are we going to do?”

  “Check on the canoe.”

  To reach the high reeds fringing the site, they had to cross the clearing. Davy was midway when a twig crunched to his left. Spinning, he leveled his rifle at a shadowy silhouette creeping from cover.

  “Don’t shoot, hoss! It’s me! Hoodoo Tom!”

  The mountain man strode over, grinning from ear to ear. “It does this old coon good to see that you fellers made it! I was beginnin’ to think I’d have to go on in the mornin’ by my lonesome, and I was wonderin’ what to do with your war sacks.”

  They shook. Flavius remembered the pemmican in one of his parfleches. “Where are our belongings?” he asked.

  Hoodoo Tom jerked a thumb at the high grass. “I hid it all yonder in case any stinkin’ Injuns came along.” He nodded at the cattails. “The canoes are right where we left ’em.”

  “How long have you been back?” Davy inquired.

  “Oh, hell. Since about four this afternoon, I’d say. I couldn’t understand what was keepin’ you. I gave the Old Ones the slip last night, soon after we got to the top of that hill.”

  “And you didn’t think to wait for us?” Davy said accusingly.

  The trapper recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “Hold on, young coon. I don’t like what you’re implyin’.” He gestured angrily and said, “Those woods were swarmin’ with Old Ones, remember? It wasn’t as if I could holler your name to get your attention. I had no idea where you had gotten to, or that Harris was even alive. So I snuck toward the village for the treasure I hankered after, then circled to the river and lit a shuck.” He smiled. “And here I am.”

  Davy had been about to sit on a log. Stiffening, he said, “Let me get this straight. You went back to the village after we were separated?”

  “Pretty near to it, yes,” Hoodoo Tom said. “The treasure I wanted was hard to come by.”

  “Show us,” Flavius said, upset that the mountaineer valued his precious “treasures” more than his life, or Davy’s.

  The trapper shook his head. “I told you before, hoss, nobody takes a gander at ’em except me. For all I know, you might take a fancy to ’em and bash me over the head when my back is turned.”

  Flavius was not satisfied. “What are they? Jewelry you’ve stolen from Indians? Gold nuggets? Silver?”

  “Better than that,” Hoodoo Tom declared proudly.

  “What can be better than gold?” Flavius said, confident he had hit the nail on the head. Some tribes were known to have secret sources of precious metals. And rumor had it that the Rockies were rich with veins of ore.

  Snickering, Hoodoo Tom walked into the grass and lifted his wolfskin pack. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he bantered, patting it.

  Davy did not care one way or the other. Disgusted, he got the fire going, a small one so as not to draw unwanted attention. Once their personal effects were lugged from hiding, he treated himself to jerky.

  “Mmmmmm,” Flavius moaned, devouring pemmican like there would be no tomorrow. He was positively famished.

  “That has to last us until we reach St. Louis,” Davy noted.

  Being reminded of the immense distance they must cover dampened Flavius’s spirits. He finished the piece he held and resisted the temptation to have another.

  Their grizzled acquaintance poked a slim stick into the crackling flames. “It’s sort of nice havin’ you boys along,” he commented. “Off in the mountains, I’d go months at a time without seein’ another soul, let alone talkin’ to one.”

  “Man wasn’t meant to be alone,” Davy said. “Why didn’t you join a fur brigade?”

  “And have to t
urn over most of my profits to the company?” Hoodoo Tom snorted. “Not on your life. I’d rather be a free trapper than a company man, any day. As for the loneliness, so what? Being alone never killed anyone.”

  “Do you plan to go back again next season?”

  “You bet. I can only abide civilization for a little while before my feet get to itchin’. Especially city folks. Not one of ’em is sane, you know.”

  Davy looked at him. If ever there was a case of the pot calling the kettle black, this was it.

  “Yessiree,” Hoodoo Tom went on blithely. “I’ve always cottoned to the far places, to where a man can do as he pleases without havin’ to justify himself to nosy neighbors and pushy politicians.”

  In that regard, they were a lot alike, and Davy said so.

  “Hell, son. Anyone with half a brain thinks the same.” Hoodoo Tom leaned forward. “Do you know that in some cities back east a man can get arrested for spittin’? Thats the gospel! The damned politicians went and passed a law against spittin’!” Sadly shaking his head, he continued. “The jackasses runnin’ our country think they have the right to boss us around as they see fit. Don’t do this! Don’t do that! Why, in some places, like New York, they won’t even let a man walk down the street with a pistol under his belt!”

  “They say it’s too risky,” Flavius chimed in. “People might take to shooting on crowded streets.”

  “Life is a risk, mister,” Hoodoo Tom declared bitterly. “As for the rest, politicians are always lookin’ for the worst in folks. Never the best. That way they turn people against one another. Then they offer to keep the peace by makin’ even more laws. And the people fall for it. It’s downright pitiful!”

  It shocked Davy to hear his own thoughts given voice by a man he deemed half-crazy. “If enough decent men stand up for what’s right, we can preserve our freedom.”

  “You’re dreamin’,” Hoodoo Tom responded. “The only way to stay free is at the point of a gun. Havin’ their stupid laws shoved down their throats is the only surefire method to get politicians to own up to their mistakes.”

  “I hope you’re wrong,” Flavius said. Personally, he never paid much attention to politics. It was all so much hot air.

  They made small talk for a while, and turned in. Each took a turn keeping watch, only this time Davy made certain enough wood was on hand to last the entire night.

  He was last to stand guard. The morning chill gnawed at his joints, so he hunkered by the fire, rubbing his hands. Presently alternating bands of pink and yellow framed the horizon, harbingers of a new day.

  Flavius did not sleep well. Fitful dreams plagued him, dreams of being tied down and helpless, and of an enormous winged terror with blazing eyes and molten talons. Small wonder he awoke at first light damp with perspiration.

  “Are you all right?” Davy asked. “You’ve been tossing and groaning for hours.”

  “Fine,” Flavius fibbed. To take his mind off the dreams, he offered to prepare their coffee.

  Hoodoo Tom did not rouse until the fragrant aroma of the perking brew hung heavy in the air. Sniffing, he sat up and blinked. “Damn. I overslept. That’s the trouble with easy livin’. It makes a person lazy.”

  By six o’clock the canoes were packed. Davy and Flavius pushed theirs into the water, climbed in, and steered into the current.

  Dawn was magnificent, with scintillating shafts of sunlight sparkling among the trees, wisps of mist curling upward from the river, and Nature’s children greeting the new day in typical noisy fashion.

  A sense of tranquility claimed Flavius. It lasted all of ten minutes. As they were passing rank reeds, a heron took hurried wing, flapping right over them.

  Naturally, Flavius thought of the Thunderbird. Were they far enough south of its normal range to be safe? Or would the creature resume hunting them? “We should stay close to the bank,” he said.

  “As much as we can,” Davy promised.

  But the terrain did not cooperate. Limbs poked out from shore, snags dotted long stretches, sand and gravel bars had to be skirted. Whenever they paddled into the open, Flavius blanched and studied the sky.

  Hoodoo Tom hummed and sang and whistled, as happy as a pig in mud. At noon he called their attention to a picturesque meadow adjoining the river. Grazing at the east end were four deer. “What say we treat ourselves to some fresh meat?”

  “Let’s!” Flavius exclaimed, stroking quickly landward. He was out of the canoe before it drifted to a stop.

  The deer looked up, ears pricked. A buck tossed its head, flashed its white tail, and bounded into the undergrowth. Flavius aimed at a doe, but she melted into the greenery with the rest. “I’m going after, them!”

  “Wait!” Davy called, to no effect. By the time he slid out and dragged the canoe onto a grassy knob, his friend was a hundred yards off. He started to go after him.

  “What’s the matter, Tennessee?” Hoodoo Tom said, chuckling. “That boy need you to hold his hand in broad daylight?”

  “He’s a fine hunter,” Davy replied, miffed.

  “Then let him prove it.”

  Despite misgivings, Davy stayed. As he gathered wood and broke out his fire steel and flint, he caught Hoodoo Tom eyeing him oddly several times. Applying kindling, he bent to strike the steel against the flint. His gaze strayed backward, under his arm, and he saw the trapper’s legs moving slowly toward him. Puzzled, he turned.

  Hoodoo Tom stopped dead and grinned. “How’s it comin’?” he asked much too casually.

  Davy shifted so the man was in front of him. “I’ll have it lit in a moment.”

  “Fine, fine.” The mountain man fidgeted, his oversized right eye twitching.

  “Something on your mind?” Davy asked.

  “That’s a fine nose you have.”

  Davy didn’t think he had heard correctly. “My nose?”

  “Yep. George thinks so, too. We noticed it right off. Saw a nose like that on a paintin’ once, in Philadelphia. Some Greek feller, it was. Alex-somebody-or-other.”

  Davy could not help himself. “My nose?” he said again, touching it. He’d always assumed it was perfectly normal. No one had ever commented on its shape or size one way or the other before.

  “And those high cheekbones, and that strong jawbone of yours,” Hoodoo Tom said airily. “Shows character, and George and me are partial to character. I wouldn’t’ve minded being born with a face like yours.”

  What was a man supposed to say to a compliment like that? Davy bent to the kindling, struck the steel and flint until a fiery spark caught. Then he blew lightly, fanning the hungry flames. When he looked up, he was surprised to find the trapper only a step away, one hand resting on the hilt of his knife.

  The mountaineer backed off, smiling. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to crowd you none.”

  Uneasiness gripped Davy. He rose, replaced the flint and fire steel in his possibles bag, and claimed Liz. For lack of anything else to say, he posed a question that had been nagging him. “How did your brother die, Tom?” He had a hunch that it might explain why Hoodoo Tom was forever talking about his brother as if George were still around.

  To Davy’s astonishment, Hoodoo Tom flushed red and coiled as if to attack. “What the hell business is it of yours? He’s dead, his body long since buried. That’s all that matters.”

  “Sorry,” Davy said. He had not meant to ruffle the old-timer’s feathers.

  “Why should you be?” Hoodoo Tom snapped. “You didn’t know him.” He embraced the wolf-hide pack, holding it close as if for comfort. “The Lord knows he wasn’t a saint, but he was fair enough, as brothers go.”

  Davy gazed across the meadow. It shouldn’t take Flavius long to track down one of those deer, he mused. Once he heard the shot, he would go help butcher it.

  Hoodoo Tom’s eyes had misted over. “It’s not as if I didn’t care for him. We bickered a lot, but we were like two peas in a pod. He just shouldn’t have argued with me, is all. I don’t take to being pushed around. Not by
my pa, not by George, not by anybody.”

  “He was bossy, was he?” Davy had no desire to pry into the man’s personal affairs, but Hoodoo Tom seemed to want to talk.

  “Not really, no. I reckon I was bossier. Usually he’d do whatever I told him. But that last time was different. He wouldn’t see things my way.” Hoodoo Tom sniffed. “That was right before he died.”

  “I’m sure he’s forgiven you for any spats you had,” Davy said to soothe the man.

  Hoodoo Tom straightened. “You think so? I’d like to believe that. Yes, I truly would. But some things can’t be forgave, and what I did was one of ’em. I’d wager my whole poke that he’s up above the clouds somewhere, right this minute, cussin’ a blue streak on my account.”

  Was cussing allowed in the Hereafter? Now, there was a question to boggle the mind. Davy began to pace, hoping to hear that shot soon.

  “I don’t suppose George would approve of my treasures, either,” the mountain man said. “But then, he didn’t want to eat that dead Injun, neither.”

  Davy stopped pacing. “You ate an Indian?”

  “Had to. We got caught up in the Rockies by an early blizzard. No way down. Not enough food to last a month. We rationed it, of course, but the day came when we ran out. So we took to eatin’ bark and weeds and such. About died, we did.” Hoodoo Tom shuddered at the memory. “One mornin’ I went off huntin’ and found a frozen Injun up on the divide. A coyote was nibblin’ on the fingers. That’s what gave me the notion.”

  “To eat him?”

  The trapper nodded. “It was the only way to survive. I dragged him to our cabin, but George didn’t want no part of it. He’d rather starve, he said.”

  “But you went ahead.”

  “That I did. Took some doing, Crockett, I don’t mind tellin’ you. Made me so sick, at first, I thought I’d keel over. But do you know what?”

  Davy’s queasiness had grown to where he felt lightheaded. “What?”

  “After a few mouthfuls, the taste grows on you. Human flesh ain’t half bad. Saltier than I figured, but it’s a lot like painter meat.”