Sioux Slaughter (A Davy Crockett Western Book 2) Page 12

  “That they will,” Davy allowed, “but you won’t be alive to see it.”

  Shaw stared at Davy’s trigger finger, then snapped, “Do as the Southerner says, boys. He’s got us by the short hairs for the moment.”

  The slavers were a sullen bunch as they paced backward the required number of steps and set their various guns and knives at their feet.

  “Now have them take another five steps back and reach for the stars,” Davy said. To emphasize his request, he gouged the muzzle against the tip of Shaw’s nose.

  “Do it!”

  Over in the shadows, Flavius was practically beside himself with glee. So what if he was hog-tied? So what if his head felt as if a drummer in a marching band had been practicing on it? So what if he was far from out of danger? Davy was there! He was reunited with his friend! Come what may, they would face it together.

  Davy started to knee the sorrel to the right to put Shaw between himself and the slavers.

  “Think you’re smart, don’t you, mister?” the big man said. “But you’ve just cut your own throat. With the Dakotas on the warpath, you and your friend over there won’t last two days.” Shaw nodded at Flavius. “You would have been better off hooking up with our outfit.”

  “Am I wearing diapers?” Davy countered. “Who do you think you’re fooling? You never meant to have me tag along. I’d have been dead the second my feet touched the ground.”

  That Shaw did not dispute it proved to Davy his guess was right. Holding Liz steady, he slid to the ground, then motioned for Shaw to precede him over to where his partner waited. All four women had sat up and scooted forward on their knees to better observe the proceedings.

  “It’s lucky for you that you have horses and we don’t,” Shaw said. “Otherwise, we’d ride you down and stake you on an anthill.”

  Davy had not noticed it before, but Flavius’s dun was tied to a tree that bordered the clearing. They could light a shuck and the slavers would never catch them. Except for one tiny hitch: the four women.

  Flavius showed all his teeth and declared, “Brother, are you a sight for sore eyes! I’d about given up hope of ever seeing you again. What happened? Where have you been?”

  “Another time,” Davy said, halting Shaw by jabbing him in the back. Circling, he drew his butcher knife, hunkered, and carefully sliced the rope that bound his friend’s wrists. He gave the knife to Flavius, who excitedly removed the ankle rope.

  “Now let’s cross the Missouri and head east! If a local tribe is out for white blood, I’d rather be long gone when they get here.”

  “We can’t,” Davy said.

  Flavius, rubbing his sore wrists, looked up. He knew that tone. Oh God, how he knew that tone! It always spelled trouble with a capital T. “What do you mean?” he asked, then saw that Davy was gazing at the four captives. “Oh, no!” he bleated. “Tell me that you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

  “We have to take them to their people.”

  An arrogant, brittle laugh rumbled from Shaw. “Go right ahead, Good Samaritan. I’d love to be there when the Oglalas carve you into little pieces.”

  “I wouldn’t!” Flavius exclaimed. Rising unsteadily, his legs tingling, he helped himself to one of the discarded rifles and covered the slavers. “Davy, you can’t be serious. Let’s just untie them and let them run off on their own. I’m sure they can find their way home again by themselves.”

  “What if they run into an enemy raiding party? Or into a grizzly or some such?” Shaking his head, Davy stepped several yards to the right so Shaw could not jump him and tucked the stock of his rifle in the crook of his right elbow to free his hands for making sign talk. In essence, he told the women, “Do not be afraid. My friend and I are your friends. We will cut you loose and help you make it back to your village.”

  The women exchanged astounded expressions.

  “Free them,” Davy instructed his friend.

  Agitated enough to spit nails, Flavius complied. It never failed. Just when he thought that things were finally going in their favor, Davy had to go and put them in even greater peril. He made himself a promise. If they lived through this nightmare, and if they somehow made it safely back to Tennessee, and if Davy ever had the gall to come over and ask him to go on another gallivant, he was going to punch Davy right in the nose.

  One of the women appeared to be slightly older than the rest, and it was she who, after rubbing her wrists and forearms for over a minute, signed to Davy, “I am Eagle Woman, an Oglala. Why would you, a white man like these other whites, want to help us, who are your enemies?”

  “Just as not all Dakotas are alike, neither are all whites,” Davy tactfully signed. “These other white men are as much my enemies as they are yours.” He paused. “As for helping you, a Sioux couple recently helped me. It is only fair that I repay the favor.”

  A younger woman, more timid than the rest, fearfully regarded their captors and signed, “How will we get away from these bad men? On foot? Or do you have more horses hidden nearby?”

  “I wish I did,” Davy signed. He had been debating how best to effect their escape and saw only one means. It entailed a great sacrifice on his part and Flavius’s, but the lives of the four women made it worthwhile. “We will take the canoes that you were brought in.”

  Flavius, confused by the strange hand gestures his friend was making, and desperate to understand what was going on, saw the four women glance toward the canoes. “Terrific idea! They take the canoes and we take our horses! All’s well that ends well!”

  “We’re all leaving in canoes,” Davy told him.

  “You and me too?” Flavius said. His fleeting hope that everything would turn out just fine had been dashed. “What about our horses? Once we’re shed of the females, we’ll be stranded afoot.”

  “We can paddle harder and faster than they can,” Davy said. “Plus they’ll need us to protect them if they run into trouble before we reach their country.”

  “But the horses!” Flavius protested, stunned by the implication. “Why, I’ve had that dun since Hector was a pup. Contrary as the critter is, it rides like a rocking chair sits. I won’t just run off and leave it! I won’t!”

  Davy knew it was best to pay Flavius no mind when his friend was in a funk. Motioning at the women, he signed, “Pick two canoes for our use. Push the others out into the river so the current will carry them away.”

  “We will do as you want,” Eagle Woman signed. They rushed off to obey.

  Flavius’s misgivings were mounting by the moment. “Let’s talk this over, hoss,” he cautioned. “Think of how hard it will be for us to reach Tennessee without mounts. It’ll take us a month of Sundays alone just to get to Westport Landing.” The trading post was the farthest outpost of civilization, located where the Missouri and Kansas rivers met.

  “Fetch the dun,” Davy directed, swinging toward the slavers. So far Shaw and the rest were behaving themselves, but he had no illusions about what would occur if he let down his guard.

  The leader glowered like a bear at bay. “Without our canoes the Tetons are bound to find us. What you’re fixing to do is the same as cold-blooded murder.”

  “It’s no worse than what you aimed to do to me,” Davy responded. “No different than what I suspect you’ve done to a heap of others over the years.”

  “You’d best kill us, then,” Shaw said flatly. “Because I promise you here and now that if you don’t, I’ll hunt you down if it takes the rest of my life.”

  “Provided you live out the week.” Davy could not resist rubbing it in.

  The other slavers were listening intently. “Shaw, we can’t let them go off in our canoes,” Gallows called out. “It’s suicide if we do.”

  “Yeah,” interjected a man with a withered arm whose name Davy did not know. “We should rush him. He’s only one man, and there are nine of us.”

  “It’s better that he drops one or two rather than have the Dakotas wipe us all out,” opined a stocky cut
throat.

  Over a shoulder Shaw said, “Stay where you are, damn it! We’re not beaten yet. The Apaches couldn’t lick us. The Mexican army couldn’t lick us. And no damn hick from the South is going to lick us, either.”

  Davy smiled. “But I’ll sure try.” To Flavius, who was pouting, he said, “Find your possibles if you know where they are. Your rifle and pistols are on the ground yonder.”

  Too depressed for words, Flavius mechanically trudged over and reclaimed his own weapons. Any other time, that would have been cause for celebration. Now he only wanted to dig a hole, crawl in, and pull the dirt back down on top of him. He had an awful feeling that Davy was going to get them slaughtered. After gathering an armful of the slavers’ guns, Flavius walked to the shore, waded a few feet into the shallows, and let go. Water seeped into his moccasins, soaking his feet, but he did not care. He was a doomed man anyway, so what did a little discomfort matter?

  “No!” Grist bellowed, taking a few strides.

  “You son of a bitch!” added Kline, doing the same.

  Davy swung Liz to cover them. “Not another step!” he warned. They stopped, quivering with suppressed fury. It would not take much to incite them or the others into a rash attack.

  The women had shoved one of the canoes out into the Missouri and were applying their backs to the second. Gliding smoothly through the tranquil water, it was enveloped by the night.

  Gallows spun toward their leader. “Damn it, Shaw! Don’t just stand there like a bump on a log. Do something! We’re doomed if we don’t.”

  “Stay calm,” Shaw advised. “Our time will come.”

  Davy decided to speed things along. “Turn around,” he ordered, and when Shaw begrudgingly pivoted, he gripped the bigger man by the back of the shirt, shoving him toward the dun. “Untie it.”

  Flavius was too distraught to protest. He stood meekly as his friend whooped and waved an arm to spook his mount into trotting off into the brush. There went his sole chance to ever cuddle with Matilda again.

  Davy had Shaw spook the sorrel. It pained him to abandon a horse that had served him in such excellent stead for so many arduous months. His sole consolation was that the pair would not want for forage, not with the well-nigh limitless grassland at their disposal. In time, perhaps roving Indians would find them. The sorrel would make a fine warhorse.

  Flavius was carrying the last of the rifles to the Missouri. One must belong to Cuchillo, the ’breed who had knocked him senseless, because Cuchillo glared when he held it out. Smirking, Flavius slowly lowered it into the water.

  Eagle Woman and her Oglala sisters had pushed the last two canoes into the shallows and climbed in. Beckoning, she signed urgently to Davy, “Hurry. The bad men have the look of rattlesnakes about to strike.”

  That they did. Davy retreated to Flavius’s side. Together they stepped to the canoes. “You shove off first. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Two smooth-faced maidens looked expectantly at Flavius as he eased over the side. They were scared and it showed. After the horrors they had been through, who could blame them? Grudgingly, Flavius realized that Davy was right; it was their duty to escort the maidens home.

  “Don’t fret, ladies,” Flavius said quietly. “My friend and me will have you back in your own lodges in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  One handed him a short paddle. Flavius experimented to find a grip he liked, then commenced to stroke in a steady if awkward cadence. His experience with canoes was almost as limited as his experience with the fairer sex, but he did not want the women to brand him a simpleton, so he forged gamely on, poised on his knees in the bow, slanting toward the middle of the river.

  In his haste to get away, Flavius had overlooked the trivial detail that he could not swim any better than a rock. Suddenly, with dark, swirling water on both sides of him, the old fear coursed through him like a red-hot poker. He recollected how he had nearly drowned not too long ago, recalling how it felt to have his air choked off and his lungs at the point of total collapse.

  On the shore, Davy gave his friend a thirty-second lead before he slid into a canoe with Eagle Woman and another Oglala who was not much older than eighteen winters, if that.

  None of the slavers had moved. Gallows was gnashing his teeth like a rabid wolverine, while two half-breeds were stooped forward like runners about to begin a race.

  “Be seeing you,” Davy called out to Shaw, who did not elect to answer. Swiftly setting Liz down, he scooped up a paddle and dipped it into the Missouri. Stroking furiously, he backed away from the shoreline.

  The moment the rifle was no longer in his hands, the slavers exploded into action. Both ’breeds dashed to where Flavius had dumped their guns and dived in. Gallows and others were right behind, goading them on.

  Shaw snaked a hand behind his back. When it reappeared, he held a single-shot derringer. Rushing to the river, he paralleled it, striving for a clear shot.

  Davy was twenty feet out and widening that gap by the second. Cloaked in darkness, he hunched forward and motioned for Eagle Woman and the other Oglala to imitate him. Seconds later the derringer cracked. The lead ball missed the canoe, striking the surface near the stern and spraying water onto the young maiden.

  Paddling rapidly, Davy guided the canoe on down the Missouri. The last sight he had of the slavers was of Shaw cursing a blue streak while the breeds tossed soaked guns to their fellows on the shore. Gallows was shaking a fist at the Missouri and railing fiercely.

  When the canoe swept past the first bend, Davy bestowed a smile on the former captives. “We have done it,” he signed. “You are safe now.”

  “I thank you for what you have done,” Eagle Woman replied, “but we will never be safe until we are with our own kind once again.”

  Davy kept his eyes skinned for his friend. He need not have bothered. For out of the gloom came Flavius’s voice, laden with anxiety.

  “Davy? Is that you back there?”

  “It’s me,” Davy verified.

  Flavius exhaled the breath he had not realized he was holding. The shot had scared him into thinking he might need to escort the women home by his lonesome. “Care to swing around in front of me so you can lead?” he hollered.

  “You can handle it.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Flavius was inclined to say, but he held his tongue. Starlight was all he had to navigate by, barely enough for him to see the fingers at the end of his arm. The darkness clung to him like a living creature, the gloom deepening the farther they traveled.

  The shorelines did not help much, buried as they were in blackness reminiscent of the Pit. Thick trees and high brush formed a jumbled black shape that framed the waterway from end to end.

  Flavius was worried that he would drift too close to land and strike a snag, or else pile onto one of the many small islands that dotted the Missouri. Either would damage the canoe, maybe severely. Whenever an object loomed in front of him, he swerved aside. Once he had to strike a small log with the paddle to prevent a collision.

  Sweat broke out across Flavius’s forehead. There was no telling what sort of obstacles they might encounter. In his humble opinion, his partner had been addle pated to risk the river at night.

  Forty feet to the north, Davy Crockett swelled his chest, invigorated by the brisk breeze. The splash of Flavius’s paddle guided him.

  Davy was glad to be free of the slavers. He relaxed for the first time since fleeing from the Tetons. Hunger gnawed at his vitals, but it also kept his fatigue at bay.

  The women did not make a peep. They knelt with their hands primly in their laps, surveying the countryside with wide eyes, as if the night harbored demons worse than those they had just fled. It led Davy to wonder if they had ever been abroad at night before they were abducted.

  Many Indians, like whites, seldom ventured far from their dwellings once the sun went down. Davy never had understood why. To him, the wilderness was the same at night as it was during the day except for the absence of the sun
. But some grown men of his acquaintance would not venture out in the dark for all the gold in Midas’s treasury.

  Flavius was one. It tickled Davy’s funny bone that his friend, who had tangled with black bears and wolves and hostile Indians, was as scared of the dark as a kid of nine.

  A squeal up ahead was followed by a rending crash. Davy slowed, hearing a frantic series of splashes and Flavius hollering for someone to hold on. “What’s happened?” he shouted, unable to see them yet.

  Flavius was embarrassed to say. Thinking that something large had moved on the west bank, he had glanced toward shore. His attention had been diverted for only a fraction of a second, but that had been more than enough time for disaster to strike. For when he swung forward, he saw the upthrust jagged rim of a submerged boulder or rock outcropping right in front of the canoe.

  One of the Oglalas had seen it, too. She squealed a warning.

  The canoe struck the outcropping just past the bow. Wood splintered like so much kindling. The jolt of impact swung the canoe violently to the left and the woman in the center flew over the side.

  She managed to grasp the rim as she was going under.

  “Hold on!” Flavius bawled, paddling for all he was worth to straighten the canoe so he could head for shore. A clammy sensation on his legs warned him that they might not make it. Water was gushing in through the gap. Already it was an inch deep and rising quickly.

  The other Oglala grabbed her friend’s arms so she would not slip off.

  Flavius pumped his arms from side to side. The stricken canoe swung first to the left, then to the right, then back again. He could not hold a steady course if his life depended on it. Which it did.

  Suddenly the canoe was jarred by a bump at the rear. Flavius glanced around, and whooped. “Remind me to treat you to a jug when we get back!”

  Davy had caught up with them, perceived their plight, and deliberately but gently rammed his canoe into theirs, adding his momentum to theirs, pushing them that much farther toward the west bank. He matched his paddle strokes to those of Flavius so the two canoes would stay close together.