Davey Crockett 6 Read online

  “Beating around the bush, are we?” Davy hunkered, propping Liz between his legs. “As my grandma used to say, you don’t collect many eggs walking around the chicken coop. You have to go inside.”

  Lowering the spyglass, Taylor looked down. “Very well. It’s Miss Dugan I’m worried about. Haven’t you noticed how Kerr has been brazenly admiring her? How he ogles her at night when she’s asleep?”

  “If he lays a hand on her, Farley will shoot him,” Davy predicted.

  “Probably. But I wouldn’t put it past Kerr to bury a blade in Farley’s back, then make his move.” Taylor squatted. “I was against bringing that ruffian along, but other than Ormbach, no one else would join us. It’s suicide, they said.”

  “They have their own families to think of.”

  “You’re being charitable. Frankly, they wanted no part of our mad scheme. Stalking Comanches in Comanche territory is not for the timid. And planning to sneak into a village and spirit captives from under their very noses is as insane as butting heads with a bull buffalo.”

  “So you brought Kerr along because you needed an extra gun,” Davy said. “No use crying over spilt milk. It was the right thing to do.” He held out his hand, and Taylor gave him the telescope. “As for Heather, don’t fret. She can take care of herself. She has one of my pistols, and she’s not afraid to use it.”

  “Are you always so agreeable?”

  “Not according to my wife.” Through the spyglass the distant trees were magnified ten times. Davy had the illusion he could reach out and touch them. He studied the growth lining the bank, raised the glass a few inches, and saw conical shapes materialize in the haze. “Take a gander,” he said. “Just south of those forked cottonwoods.”

  The Texian complied. “Dog my cats! You found the village! It can’t be more than three miles, as the crow flies.” Movement to the west alerted Davy to a group of riders. Grabbing Taylor, he flattened. Nine warriors, he counted, heading home after a hunt or a raid. Had they seen a glint of light on the hilltop? One of them seemed to be pointing at the hills. He watched with bated breath until the group forded the stream and was hidden by the trees. “We’d better lay low until dark.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  A small fire blazed next to the spring. Heather was adding dry twigs and had a pile at her feet. Davy ran over, scattered the pile with a kick, and hurriedly scooped water onto the flames, putting out every last one. He swatted at stray tendrils of smoke with his coonskin cap, dispelling them.

  Initially startled, Heather demanded, “What did you do that for?”

  Taylor told them about the village.

  Farley flushed with excitement and wagged his fists. “At last! We’ve done it! By this time tomorrow, Marcy and Beth could be on their way to San Antonio.”

  “What’s your plan?” Davy asked.

  Farley arched an eyebrow. “Plan? We don’t rightly have one. I reckon we’ll sneak on down, figure out which lodges the women are in, and take them by force.”

  Davy snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”

  “I know. I know,” Farley said. “I’m open to any ideas.” He pointed at Davy, Taylor, and Ormbach. “Be ready to go an hour after sunset. Kerr will stay to guard Heather and Becky and the horses.”

  Kerr? Davy noticed that he was not the only one uncomfortable with the notion. Taylor fidgeted, Ormbach frowned. The heady thrill of saving Marcy had muddied Farley’s thinking. “I hear that Kerr is a good shot,” Davy said tactfully, even though no one had made any such claim. “Maybe we should take him and leave Ormbach.”

  “Whatever you want,” Farley said absently.

  Kerr cleared his throat. “I’m staying. I agreed to help find the village, not go into it.” He offered an olive branch. “Don’t worry. I’ll cover you if the Comanches are dogging your heels.”

  Davy was in a quandary. He’d as soon leave Heather with a rabid wolf as with Kerr. He would stay himself, but while the others rescued the women he was going after Flavius. The only other solution he could see was to propose, “Maybe we should all go. Stick together for safety’s sake.”

  “You’re being silly,” Heather said. “Becky and I will be fine. Do what you have to.”

  That ended that. Farley unpacked a dress he had brought for his sister and smoothed it on a flat rock. “Yellow,” he said as Davy strolled by. “It was always her favorite color. I figured this would cheer her some.”

  Davy brought up a question that had been eating at him since their talk that morning. “What if she refuses to go with us, no matter what?”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,” Farley responded. Gently, he ran a finger over the soft fabric. “But she won’t. We were always close, Marcella and me. As kids, we always played together. Tag. Hide-and-seek. You name it. She was fun to be with.” A haunted aspect tainted his expression, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t begin to imagine how she’s suffered. Well, no more. I aim to end it, one way or another.”

  Davy did not like the sound of that. “If she won’t come, there isn’t much you can do.”

  “You’re wrong, friend. There’s always a last resort.” Farley unconsciously drifted a hand to one of his ivory-handled flintlocks. “My mother made it clear. Under no circumstances is Marcy to stay with the Comanches.”

  Horrified, Davy moved closer so none of the others would overhear. “Your own mother wants you to shoot your sister? How can she?”

  Farley’s eyes were focused inward. “What do you do if your horse breaks a leg? You kill it to put it out of its misery. This is no different.”

  “The hell it isn’t. People aren’t animals. And it’s your sister, for God’s sake.”

  “All the more reason I can’t let her go on suffering. Just to think of her being abed with a Comanche—” Farley broke off and shuddered. “The shame is more than anyone should have to bear.”

  Shame for whom? Davy was inclined to ask, but he held his tongue. It was a family affair, to be settled between mother, son, and daughter. “What about your cousin Beth? Are you supposed to kill her, too?”

  “Her pa left that up to me.”

  The young man was shouldering an inhuman burden. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes,” Davy remarked, and walked to where Heather and Becky were munching on jerked buffalo meat, courtesy of Taylor. “We need to have a few words,” he bluntly told the mother.

  Heather checked to make sure no one else was within earshot. “Is it about Kerr? If so, save your breath.”

  “How did you guess?”

  “Taylor and Ormbach beat you to the punch. They both warned me not to let down my guard while the rest of you are gone.” She rested her fingers on the flintlock the Tennessean had lent her. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told them. Don’t fuss over us. If Kerr so much as looks at me crosswise, I’ll part his hair with lead.”

  “Aim about three feet lower,” Davy advised, winking.

  Night came on apace. Coyotes were serenading the stars when Taylor called the others together. “It’s time,” he said. Guns were checked once more. Knives were loosened in their sheaths. Davy had honed his tomahawk while waiting; now he rubbed a hand over the cold steel, glad he had it for close-quarter combat.

  Kerr had been oddly quiet the whole evening. Davy rated it a bad sign, but there was nothing he could do. They were committed. Besides, Heather had closed her ears to their earnest appeals for her to go along. Like most females, she had an independent streak a mile wide, and woe to any man who treated her as if she could not take care of herself.

  Davy was the last to leave. At a bend in the trail, he glanced over a shoulder. Heather was seated on a rock, Becky fiddling with a folding knife Taylor had given her. Dark shadows partially hid Kerr. “Take care,” he called quietly. Mother and daughter waved. Kerr did not move.

  Once past the hills, the Texians advanced in single file, Farley in the lead. Through low grass they stealthily slunk to the stream. There, Taylor shimmied up a
cottonwood. The village was peaceful, he reported. East of it milled an enormous horse herd.

  A quarter-moon afforded enough light to see by but not enough to give them away from a distance. Farley paralleled the stream until he discovered a gravel bar that enabled them to ford without getting wet above the knees. They had a scary few moments when something snorted and bounded off through the brush. It was only a deer.

  The barking of a dog heightened their caution. Every Comanche, Taylor had informed Davy, owned at least one, and were quite attached to them. Unlike some tribes, who routinely ate dog flesh, Comanches would no more devour one than they would a friend or family member.

  Farley’s eagerness nearly did them in. They were five hundred yards from the lodges when he stepped on a twig that crunched loudly. All four of them instantly froze. Davy listened but heard only the breeze. He waited for the Texians to continue and was puzzled when they didn’t. Rustling to the left explained why.

  A Comanche boy of twelve or so was heading toward the village. Over his shoulder was slung a bow and quiver; in his left hand was a rabbit. He had heard the twig, and stopped.

  Davy saw Taylor start to draw his knife. Slaying children did not sit well with him, and he was debating whether to rush the boy before Taylor could when the young Comanche ambled on. The boy could not be blamed for being so careless. No one in recent memory had attacked a Comanche village. They were the lords of their domain, undisputed masters of the southern prairie, able to hold their own against even the dreaded Apaches.

  When the boy was gone, Farley cat-footed forward. The magnitude of the challenge they faced became apparent when they were on their bellies in tall grass at the camp’s edge. Davy had never beheld so many lodges in one place. Locating Flavius and the missing women would be next to impossible.

  A number of lodge flaps were wide open. Fires lit the interiors, showing tranquil scenes of families enjoying their evening meals.

  Davy had not thought to ask how Farley would identify the captives. Whites kept among Indians any length of time tended to become like their captors. Their skin was burnt brown. They wore buckskins, let their hair grow. Telling the white women apart from Comanche women might be difficult.

  As for Flavius, he would stick out like a ram in a wolf pack. A crude comparison, but apt. The Tennessean examined the entrance to every dwelling.

  Suddenly warriors began to file from a large lodge. Davy was elated to recognize Flavius among them. His pulse quickened as his friend was led to a post and tied fast. Kindling was brought, enough to burn a grown man to a crisp, while more and more Comanches gathered. Flavius looked on, helpless.

  Farley crawled to Davy’s side. “Is that your partner?” he whispered.

  “Afraid so.”

  “That smirking bastard in front of him is Two Claws.”

  Davy was more interested in a warrior who emerged from a lodge bearing a burning brand. The man hurried toward the post, toward the waiting wood that would incinerate Flavius. In another minute the conflagration would be lit.

  Do something! Davy’s mind screamed.

  But what?

  Ten

  Flavius Harris braced to meet his doom. The heat from the torch singed his buckskins as the warrior slowly lowered it to the wood. Two Claws looked on, smirking smugly. The torch was inches from the pile when a woman in the crowd yelled shrilly and pointed. All the Comanches glanced up. The man with the torch hesitated, as dumbfounded as the rest.

  Davy Crockett was the cause. Ninety seconds earlier he had leaped to his feet and dashed toward the nearest lodge. Farley snatched at his leg, whispering, “What in the devil do you think you’re doing?” But Davy did not answer. Every second was crucial.

  The flap to the lodge was open. Inside, in the center, burned a cooking fire. Davy raced to it, gripped the end of a long burning brand, and ran back out again. Applying the brand to the edge of the flap, he set it ablaze. The instant it ignited, he whirled and ran to its neighbor to do the same.

  Then he dashed into the night. At the grass he stopped and flung the brand at a third lodge.

  Davy ducked down just as a woman cried out. The first lodge had flames half a foot high licking at the hide, the second lodge was beginning to burn, and the third had not yet ignited. It was enough to bring the Comanches on the run. Shouting in a confused chorus, the villagers rushed toward the afflicted dwellings.

  Davy rolled to the left—not a few yards but more than a score. Shoving into a crouch, he sped around the perimeter of the encampment until he was abreast of the post. All the Indians save one were now at the lodges. The sole exception was the warrior who had been about to set Flavius on fire. The man still held the torch.

  Without hesitation Davy veered toward the middle of the encampment, running flat out. All it would take was for a single Comanche to spot him and the whole band would be out for his blood. But he did not care. He had to save Flavius. It helped that the Comanches had their backs to him, and that the warrior by the post had riveted his attention to the attempts to save the tepees.

  Flavius struggled against his bounds. He had loosened his left wrist at the cost of considerable skin, and could feel blood trickling down his arm. The patter of running feet made him twist. Never in his entire life had any sight been as welcome as that of the brawny Irishman rushing out of the darkness with Liz raised on high.

  The warrior heard Davy at the last second. Pivoting, the man thrust the torch at him and opened his mouth to call out. Another bound brought Davy to his quarry. Sidestepping the sizzling flames, he brought Liz’s heavy stock crashing down onto the warrior’s brow. The man crumpled like a piece of paper, but as he fell, so did the torch. It landed on the pile.

  “Cutting it close, aren’t you?” Flavius bantered as the dry tinder flared red and orange.

  Davy whipped out his tomahawk. Moving behind the post, he chopped at the ropes. He freed Flavius’s wrists but missed with his first swing at the rope lower down. Crackling flames spurted toward his friend’s legs.

  “Hurry!” Flavius urged.

  Davy swung again. The hemp parted. Without delay he rotated and raced into the darkness. They were still in grave peril. As soon as the lodges were safe, the Comanches would realize what had happened. Dozens of maddened warriors would fan out, searching. He bore to the right to circle the village, replacing his tomahawk on the fly.

  Flavius wanted to thank his friend for saving his life, but he needed all his breath to keep up. Only one of the lodges still burned, the Comanches buzzing around it like enraged bees. He glimpsed two figures in buckskin dresses apart from the rest, rather meekly standing by themselves in the shadows of a lodge on the perimeter. He feared they would spot Davy and him, but they only had eyes for the fire.

  To Flavius’s astonishment, Davy unexpectedly angled toward the pair. “Consarn it,” Flavius hissed. “What are you doing?”

  The taller woman had sandy hair. Davy slowed, approaching them silently. He was taking an awful risk. They might not be the ones the Texians sought. But he owed it to Farley and the others to find out. From ten feet away he put a hand to his mouth and whispered, “Marcella Tanner! Bethany Cole! Is that you?”

  The women spun. One, the shorter, held an infant bundled in a blanket.

  “Marcy? Beth?” Davy repeated, stepping forward so they could see him. “I’m a friend. I’ve come to save you. Let’s go!” He motioned for them to make haste and turned to leave. But neither woman moved. The short one appeared terrified; the taller woman had a hand to her throat

  “Please,” Davy pleaded. “If you’re who I think you are, if you want to see your loved ones again, we best light a shuck while we can!”

  The woman with the baby had been transformed into granite. The sandy-haired one, though, took a tentative step and said timidly, “You’re white!”

  “I’m a friend,” Davy assured her. The Comanches, he saw, hid surrounded the burning lodge, and warriors were flapping at the flames with robes and blankets and wha
tever else was handy. A sudden burst of light halfway across the village apprised him of the fact that the woodpile and the post were fully aflame. As yet, the Comanches were not aware of it, but they would be at any moment.

  “Please,” Davy repeated, and beckoned.

  The tall woman started forward, then stopped cold, staring past Davy. He looked. It was only Flavius. “Stay where you are,” he cautioned his friend. “We don’t want to frighten them.”

  “Who are they?” Flavius was sorely confused. His every instinct was to run like hell. To linger was madness.

  Davy held his hand out to the sandy-haired woman. “Are you Marcy?” When she bobbed her chin, he said, “Your brother is close by. Would you like to see him? I can take you this very minute.”

  “Farley?”

  A shriek rang out. A woman over by the burning lodge was to blame. One of the warriors had ventured too close and his shirt had burst into flame. Others converged, swatting at his arm and chest.

  Marcy glanced at the Comanches, then at Davy. She took another step, but hesitated.

  “What are you waiting for?” Davy coaxed. “We have to leave before it’s too late.”

  It already was.

  Around a lodge to the right appeared a dog, a bristly mongrel that bared its fangs and barked ferociously. Davy leveled his rifle, not wanting to shoot but expecting the beast to attack. Simultaneously, screeches rent the air. From out of the inferno devouring the post and the wood darted a human form covered in writhing flames.

  Davy was aghast. It was the warrior he had knocked out. The man was a sheet of fire from head to toe. He saw the warrior fall, saw him flop and roll in a frenzy.

  Tremendous howls mingled in a chorus of fury. The rest of the Comanches had seen the stricken man, and many were hurrying to his assistance.

  “We best go!” Davy pleaded.

  Marcy took another step, but Beth backed off, shaking her head and babbling in the Comanche tongue.

  To Flavius, that was the last straw. Afraid the women were going to get them killed, he leaped past Davy to the side of the one with the baby, and clutched her arm. “Quit stalling, damn it,” he scolded. Up close, he could see that she was white. “What the devil is the matter with you?”