Davy Crockett 7 Read online

  Davy and Flavius picked convenient boulders to roost on, Davy taking advantage of the break to reload Liz. “I have some news that might brighten your day, pard,” he commented.

  Flavius could use some. Ever since their gallivant commenced, one misfortune after another had befallen them. Sometimes he secretly feared they were under a curse, like the one an ancient witchy woman up in the hills had placed on a kinsman. The man’s crops had been wiped out by a freak spring flood, his cabin had burned in a bizarre accident, and his one and only plow horse had been consumed by a cougar. No one could convince the kinsman, or Flavius, it was simple coincidence. “What’s your news?”

  “As soon as this business is finished, we’re leaving for home. It shouldn’t be more than four or five days, at the most.”

  If a fly had alighted on Flavius, he’d have keeled over. For ages he’d been trying to extract a firm promise from the Irishman. Always, Davy gave vague or evasive answers, hinting they would head out at such and such a time. Now, at long, long last, he had a definite date. “You won’t change your mind?”

  “Not this time, no.”

  “You’re not going to back out at the last minute with an excuse to take us to Mexico or Brazil or God knows where?”

  “I give you my word. Our wandering days are about over. I’ve seen enough of the country to last me a lifetime. Those freebooters didn’t bash you on the noggin when you were their prisoner, did they?”

  Davy sighed. He supposed he had that coming, after having dragged poor Flavius over hill and dale for weeks and weeks on end. “No. I’m fine.” Plucking a blade of grass, he stuck the stem between his teeth. “I don’t need to search anymore.”

  Flavius cocked his head. “We were hunting for something this whole time? Why in hell didn’t you tell me, so I could help you look? We might have found it that much sooner.”

  Smacking the soil, Davy declared, “This is what I was after.”

  “Dirt?”

  “Texas, my friend. Texas. The place where I’ll eventually settle down. Where I’ll likely end my days.”

  To say Flavius was confused would be an understatement. “Let me get this straight. We traveled hundreds—no, thousands—of miles. We fought grizzlies, painters, and wolves. We traded lead and arrows with the Fox tribe, the Sioux, and the Atsinas. We almost lost our skins more times than a cat has lives. And all because you were searching for somewhere to while away your last days in a rocking chair?”

  “That’s about the gist of it, I reckon.”

  Flavius sputtered, then said, “I’d shoot you, but I might need my ammunition later on.” He swept their surroundings in disbelief. “What’s so blamed special about Texas, anyhow?”

  “Where do I begin?” Davy said. How could he explain his fondness for the land, for the people, for the feel of it all. “Its size, for one thing. Tennessee is fast filling up. Another ten years and there won’t be room for a body to spit without hitting his neighbor.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Am I? How many times have you moved in the past five years just so there’d be enough game for your supper pot? Twice, as I recollect.” Davy admired a red hawk gliding high in the rich blue sky. “Texas is a hunter’s paradise. The people here are friendly. The pace of life is slow. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. One day, I can’t say exactly when yet, I’m coming back here to stay.”

  “Those are the good points. What about the bad?”

  “For instance?”

  Flavius ticked them off on his fingers. “The Spanish, who don’t cotton to Americans one bit. The high taxes. Being forced to change religions. And let’s not forget the freebooters. So what if we have Tar? The rest will make life miserable for every honest citizen for a long time to come.”

  As if to confirm the Tennessean’s point, shots shattered the tranquil scene and out of the undergrowth exploded a score of screeching cutthroats. In a fluid crescent they converged on the Texicans. At their head rode Quint, bawling, “Kill ’em! Kill ’em all!”

  Nine

  Davy Crockett had figured the freebooters would make a rash attempt to free the Englishman—but later rather than sooner. He’d guessed that Quint and company would ambush them close to the ranch early the next morning. He had erred, though, in failing to take into account the sea dog’s impatient nature. Quint and a bunch of freebooters with swift horses had evidently cut out as soon as he and Flavius did, paralleling the Texicans and awaiting their chance. Now they saw it.

  As the cutthroats hurtled forward, firing and whooping like a band of Comanches, two caballeros fell, mortally stricken. But the rest instantly sought cover, snapping off shots of their own, unhorsing several riders.

  Farley sprang to the defense of his mother and Heather, his fancy pistols flashing out. A husky killer bore down on them, sighting along a long rifle, only to take a lead ball in the eye. Another came at them from the right, his shot smacking into a tree behind Farley. The tall Texican’s reply was more accurate.

  Taylor had dropped to a knee to steady his aim and was shooting just as fast as he could squeeze the trigger and reload.

  Acrid gun smoke swirled everywhere. Davy Crockett and Flavius Harris were on their feet in the blink of an eye, Flavius running to his skittish brown stallion to stop it from running off.

  Davy spun toward the man responsible for the whole mess. Blackjack Tar had been strangely quiet ever since leaving the meadow. Not once had he given them any trouble. But Davy wasn’t fooled. Trying to keep a tight rein on Tar was like trying to keep a leash on a tiger. So long as the tiger sat quietly with its claws sheathed, all was well. The thing about tigers, though, was that at any moment they might transform into raging engines of destruction.

  Now the Irishman saw Blackjack Tar dash up behind an unsuspecting Mexican. Tar’s hands were bound, but that did not prevent him from clamping them around the caballero's throat. It happened unbelievably fast.

  Even as Davy flung himself toward them, Tar’s huge arms bulged and he gave a sharp wrench. The crack of the Mexican’s neck breaking was as loud as a pistol shot. Davy was almost on top of them by then, and he threw Liz high. “Try me, Tar!”

  The giant renegade pivoted. Davy brought Liz sweeping down. The heavy stock caught Tar on the temple in a blow powerful enough to fell an ox. But Blackjack Tar did not fall. Swaying, he staggered, then rallied and lunged, grabbing Liz before Davy could step back. Davy tried to tug loose, but his sinews were no match for those of the giant.

  “My turn, raccoon-head,” the Englishman taunted, and tried to rip Liz from the Tennessean’s hands.

  Davy cocked the hammer. Liz’s muzzle was pointed right at the giant, low down on his right side. Tar was grinning wickedly in anticipation of taking revenge, but the grin vanished in a haze of smoke when Liz boomed.

  From a range of four inches the rifle discharged into the giant. Even a man as massive as he was could not shrug off the impact. The ball ripped through the fleshy outer part of his abdomen below his ribs and ruptured out his back. Tar was jolted backward, lost his balance, and toppled.

  Davy whipped out a flintlock. Cocking it, he ran to the stunned giant’s side. As Blackjack Tar grunted and pressed a hand to the gushing wound, Davy pressed the flintlock to Tar’s ear. “Give me an excuse. Any excuse.”

  The giant transformed into a marble sculpture, except for a curious quirk of his mouth. “You’ve got me, mate. Fair and square.”

  Around them the battle swirled. Seven caballeros were down, one convulsing wildly. In a testament to their skill, fully half the freebooters were scattered in attitudes of violent death among the trees. The others had dismounted and were shooting from cover. Quint, unfortunately, still lived, and was crouched behind a willow wide enough to conceal a buffalo.

  Davy shifted and prodded Tar to sit up, using him as a living shield. “Quint!” he hollered. “Take a gander over here!”

  The sea dog heard. Scowling in livid hatred, the lieutenant took one look, then flap
ped his arms and screeched over and over, “Stop firin’! All of you! Stop, I say!” One by one the freebooters obeyed. As their shots tapered, so did those of the Texicans. When a cutthroat who didn’t hear the order snapped off a last one, Quint’s face grew half purple. “Tilson! Damn your bones! Squeeze trigger one more time and I’ll have your tongue cut out!”

  An unnerving silence gripped the woods. Thick bluish-white smoke formed small drifting clouds. A wounded man commenced whining like a hurt puppy.

  Quint straightened but wisely didn’t show himself fully. “All right, you bastard. Now what?” His beady eyes fell to the Englishman’s bleeding side. “Cap’n! How bad is it? Are you done for?”

  Blackjack Tar swallowed. “I’ll live, Mr. Quint. No thanks to your bungling. I thought I taught you better than this. You should have gone on ahead and gunned these fools down from ambush. Not charged them.”

  “Sorry, Cap’n. Now what do we do?”

  Davy moved his arm so the sea dog could clearly see that the flintlock’s hammer was back. “I’ll decide that. You and your men will skedaddle. Leave your horses and go. Right this minute.”

  “On foot? Like hell.”

  “Then Tar dies,” Davy declared, jamming the barrel into the giant’s skin for emphasis.

  Quint was a study in suppressed rage. He cursed lustily, long and loud, then snarled, “You win, you stinkin’ landlubber. Me and me boys are on our way. And Cap’n—don’t you worry none, you hear?”

  “I am counting on you, Mr. Quint,” Tar said.

  Out of the corner of his eye Davy saw Farley Tanner lean to the left and whisper to Taylor, who in turn whispered to a nearby caballero, who then whispered to another, and so on, passing a message from man to man. He gave it no more thought, for just then the freebooters began to back away. Many showed themselves as they retreated around trunks or thick brush.

  “You haven’t seen the last of us, you scurvy knaves!” Quint promised.

  Farley Tanner rose. “Care to bet?” Suddenly jerking a pistol up, he cried, “Now, companeros! Now!”

  Davy was as shocked as the freebooters. A volley slammed into them, slaying all but four. They sought to flee, but two fell within a few yards, leaving Quint and one other, who scampered for their lives, bounding like fearful deer. Quint plunged into dense growth and disappeared; the other freebooter took a ball in the spine and went down screaming and thrashing until enough lead sliced through him to still his wails.

  Blackjack Tar surged erect, heedless of Davy’s flintlock, and crouched, ready to hurl himself at Farley. “You son of a bitch!” he roared. “I’ll crush you with my bare hands!”

  The tall Texican faced the giant and extended a pistol. “Try. Please try, Tar. I want nothing more than to stomp your lifeless face into a pulp. The only reason I haven’t killed you already is because hanging you will serve as an object lesson to the trash you ride with.”

  The giant was incensed almost beyond endurance. He took a half-step, but regained his self-possession in the nick of time. “I won’t forget this, Tanner. What you did was outright murder. The same thing you accuse me of.”

  Davy stepped away from the giant. “As much as I hate to admit it, I agree with Tar. They were leaving. There was no need to slaughter them.”

  Taylor stepped closer. “I like you, Tennessee. You’re an honorable man, and there’s a shortage of honor these days. But to paraphrase the Bible, there is a time for being honorable and a time for giving those who have no honor a taste of their own medicine.” The older Texican sighed. “This isn’t a duel we’re fighting, Crockett. It’s root hog or die. Them or us. And you know damn well they’ll stop at nothing to rub us out.”

  The irony of having one of his own favorite expressions used in argument against him was not lost on Davy. Root hog or die. How many times had he said the same thing in similar circumstances? But even during the Creek War, in the thickest of the fighting, he had always fought according to the personal code he wore like a suit of armor: Be sure you are right, then go ahead. If his father and his grandfather had told him that once, they had said it to him a million times. And of all their many teachings, it was the one he had taken most to heart.

  “I know they will,” Davy acknowledged, “but two wrongs don’t make a right. You shouldn’t have done it.”

  Priscilla Tanner came from behind a tree. Where other women might have been quaking with fright at their narrow escape, she was ramrod straight and as stern as the day was long. “Nonsense, Mr. Crockett. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll learn there are only two rules in life. One, blood is thicker than water. Two, always get in the first lick—and make it the last.”

  One of the wounded caballeros groaned, ending the dispute. Farley ran to the man as Taylor and others went from body to body, seeing who was alive and who wasn’t. Heather stood by herself, arms clasped to her bosom, her features showing she was troubled by something.

  Three of the fallen Mexicans still breathed. One shortly died, after asking that rites be said for him by Father Kino. The others were put on their horses. One had to be tied to the saddle, since he was too weak to ride under his own power. Just as a blood red sun touched the distant horizon, the Texicans resumed their flight.

  A somber air gripped the column. Lady Luck had favored them so far, but as Flavius had pointed out back at the creek, they couldn’t expect their good fortune to hold forever. Time, and the odds, were on the side of the freebooters.

  By design Davy wound up riding beside Blackjack Tar. Someone had to keep close watch over the Englishman, and Davy couldn’t fully trust the Texicans. Sure, Farley wanted to see the giant hang to make an example of him, but one of the others might decide, “Why bother?”

  The giant was uncharacteristically grim, not uttering a peep until stars sprinkled the firmament. The yip of a coyote stirred him from his funk, and looking up, he commented out of the blue, “Pretty night, isn’t it, Yank?”

  “Never took you for the kind to notice,” Davy said without rancor.

  “If I am pricked, do I not bleed?” Tar said, and snickered. “I love life, raccoon-head. I love everything about it. When I wake in the morning, the first thing I do is sit up and take a deep breath just to appreciate being able to.”

  “For a man who likes living so much, you leave a lot of dead people wherever you go.”

  “Touché,” the cutthroat conceded. “But it’s not as if I bear them any ill will. Happenstance is to blame for what I am. I didn’t choose this path.”

  “Oh, please.” Davy was of the firm opinion that people created their own paths by the conscious decisions they made. If they didn’t like who they had become, all they had to do was change.

  “Don’t believe me, eh?” Tar said. “Well, it’s true. I never planned on being a freebooter, Yank. It just worked out that way.” He paused. “All I ever wanted from life was to serve my term in the Royal Navy and retire to Liverpool with a small pension to keep me in rum the rest of my days.”

  “I heard they were going to court-martial you.”

  Tar’s shadowed face grew darker. “The maggots. Believe what you will, I was a damn fine officer, Crockett. I served with distinction. Earned my promotions by the sweat of my brow.”

  The Englishman stopped, but Davy had the impression Tar wanted to say more. “What really happened?”

  A minute elapsed, and Davy was about convinced he had been wrong when the giant cleared his throat. “I made the mistake of angering a high-and-mighty admiral. Not on purpose, you understand.” His tone grew wistful. “A nephew of his did me in. I was captain of a man-of-war at the time. The Royal Prince, she was called, and a finer ship never was commissioned anywhere. She was a sweetheart.”

  “You talk about the boat as if it were your lover,” Davy joked.

  “Spoken like a true landlubber,” Tar said. “Lord, you have no idea. I did love her. Hell, I loved being in the Navy. The work was hard and my superiors were demanding, but I thrived. I was so proud
of wearing the uniform, once I nearly throttled a fellow captain who had the gall to suggest the Royal Navy was a haven for outcasts and misfits.”

  “What did the nephew do to get you into trouble?”

  Tar growled like an angered grizzly. “Hell, it’s what the lout didn’t do. He was a lieutenant fresh out of the academy, a young snot who thought he walked on water and pissed gold. Had connections, you see. The admiral was one of many.” Davy had met people like that. Politicians, mostly. Arrogant snots who acted as if life owed them a living. Or the taxpayers did.

  “From the day we met I never liked him. The blighter waltzed onto my ship and treated her as if she were his. Well, when I set him straight and made him toe the line, he complained to his uncle. I was working him too hard. I was out to get him. The usual rot.”

  “The admiral believed his tales?”

  “What was that the old hag said earlier? Ah, yes. Blood is thicker than water. What do you think?”

  Davy offered no response.

  “The admiral wrote to me and asked, ever so politely, if I couldn’t maybe go easy on his pride and joy. The nephew had been sucking on the teat of luxury and privilege since he was born, you see, and the admiral would take it as a personal favor if I would go on treating the brat as if he were God’s gift to humanity.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  The giant bristled at the memory. “Hell, no. I never showed favorites. Every officer, every man, was treated equally and fairly. I called the bloke into my cabin and gave him what for. Told him if he ever went to his uncle behind my back again, I’d have him swabbing decks from Sunday till hell froze over.”

  Davy foresaw the outcome. “He did so, anyway.”